


No Small Injury

by bob_fish



Series: Wrong Turn 'verse [31]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alchemy, Case Fic, Comedy, Drama, F/M, M/M, Mystery, Politics, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-25
Updated: 2009-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 80,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bob_fish/pseuds/bob_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years on from the Promised Day, as Mustang's faction struggles for power with Hakuro's, the Amestrian Army is one gunshot away from a civil war. Now someone may have fired that shot. Meanwhile, Alphonse is on the verge of a discovery, Mustang could really use some sleep, and Rebecca and Havoc totally aren't getting any work done. Perhaps more worryingly still, the Fullmetal Alchemist is bored, heartbroken and at a loose end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Way to a Man's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Slight AU from Ch 108 (I wrote much of this before 108, and got jossed). Details of AU-ness on my lj [here](http://bob-fish.livejournal.com/36157.html).
> 
> Illustrated fic is illustrated (by me). Many, many thanks to my ace beta [](http://enemytosleep.livejournal.com/profile)[**enemytosleep.**](http://enemytosleep.livejournal.com/)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rebecca has a bad day and Ed takes on his final mission before retirement.

_Never do an enemy a small injury._  
         - Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

Oh dear Lord, this was absolutely criminal. Seriously, in whose book was past twenty two hundred on a Friday night a reasonable time to finish work? Rebecca looked over from the clock to her boss's desk. She could just about see the jackass through the gaps between stacks of red files. He wasn't even writing, for heaven's sake, just staring straight through a document and chewing on the end of his pencil. Seriously, man, when you've read it four times and it's not sinking in, it's time to clock off and hit up a steakhouse.

When she'd got the post-coup transfer to Mustang's new department, she'd been stoked. Political shenanigans were fun, they would be manoeuvring on the side of righteousness, she had held unrealistic hopes that Riza would let her get away with stuff, and it didn't hurt that the brigadier general himself was pretty easy on the eyes. She'd changed her mind about that last one after he'd made her pull two all-nighters in her first week. The hotness, it was invisible to her now. To think that after nearly two years of this, he'd promised them all - lying dick! - that things were going to ease off now they'd taken on new staff, they'd be pleased to hear that he was going to be asking less of them and thank you for bearing with all of this blah blah blah. The rest of those chumps might be buying it, but she knew one of _those_ guys when she saw one, and Mustang was so one of those guys.

To make matters worse - or perhaps just to rub it in - her boyfriend had been allowed to clock off at four in order to take some dubious fat cat to dinner, off the record but on the expense account, to schmooze him into giving their parliamentary faction a wad of dough in a brown envelope. Rebecca had offered to add her persuasive powers to the mix ("I can wear that dress with the little skirt and the lace cut-outs!") but Mustang had just narrowed his eyes and nixed it before Jean could even get half a sentence out. Well, Jean and his new best buddy had better not hit up a strip club. If he did, she'd know the minute she eyeballed him and asked. For a professional perpetrator of sketchy deals, Jean was such a crappy liar, the sweetheart.

Well, she'd be damned if she was still going to be here at midnight. None of this shit was going to get finished, and she had to turn up the next morning anyway (Saturday morning! When decent citizens were supposed to be sleeping, having leisurely sex, then eating bacon sandwiches with ketchup!). So yeah, she was done for the night. She stopped typing right in the middle of her sentence, wiggled her fingers to get the cramps out, and then marched over to Mustang's desk and snapped him a salute which she hoped had at least a tiny hint of sarcasm to it.

"Sir? Permission to finish up for tonight? I know the plan was to finish up this analysis today, but there's way more to it than I thought, and I'm gonna make much better headway after a night's sleep." It was kind of cheeky, but if Mustang had any redeeming qualities as a commanding officer, it was that he was usually okay with cheeky.

He didn't even look up properly, just waved a hand and said, "yes, yes, dismissed, Captain," then went straight back to whatever it was he was failing to read.

Nicely weaselled, Rebecca congratulated herself. With a lighter heart, she locked up her desk and collected her bag, already fantasising about deli food and a big glass of red wine, to be taken slumped in her armchair.

By the time she'd gotten her coat on she'd realised in resignation that really, she just wanted to fall straight into her bed the minute she got in the door. Damn you, Mustang, she cursed. First, he'd hijacked her leisure hours and destroyed her dating opportunities. Then, when she'd fallen for his tricks and started fraternizing with a fellow prisoner of the office, he posted her new man off to enjoy fillet steak and guy talk for the good of the revolution, leaving her to type report after report until her fingers bled and she lost the will to live. Such an ass. Rebecca really wished she didn't love democracy so much.

***

The metro had been full of people who, for the most part, were younger, drunker and cheerier than her. So by the time Rebecca was walking up to her own front door, her mood was even worse than it was before. At least the light was on under the door. Her flatmate, Katie, could get in a real snit if you woke her up coming in late.

She pulled her keys from her coat pocket, rattled through them, and picked out the right one. She looked up. Huh. The door was open. No wait, it wasn't just open, it was wrenched open. The doorframe was splintered, the deadbolt ripped out. Oh crap, oh crap. Tonight just had to be the night she interrupted a burglar, didn't it?

Rebecca pulled in a breath, forced herself to feel the adrenaline pulsing through her body. She let her mind settle down calm, getting into the zone. She reached behind her back, unholstering her sidearm. She hoped Katie - who so wouldn't have cut it in the army, bless her - was out on some parliamentary jolly, or had at least had the common sense to hide under her duvet quaking. She pointed her gun upwards and cocked it, kicked the door open, and moved in. Her gun out in both hands, she moved slowly round in a semi-circle, taking in the scene. The hall was empty and quiet. There was blood all over the floor. Someone had laid tea towels down over it, but there was more blood there than towels. Had she got this wrong? Had Katie had some kind of klutzy accident, and then had to get ambulance guys to break down the door?

The biggest bloodstain was a fat, messy trail soaking through the towels leading between the living room and the bathroom. Rebecca moved across the hall and through the open living room doorway on the balls of her feet. This room, too, was empty. There was a smashed lamp, an overturned bookcase. The blood started at a foot-wide stain on the carpet. Oh hell. Rebecca sprinted back, threw open the bathroom door, her gun out and ready.

Inside, Katie, her annoying, high-maintenance flatmate, Katie, Katie who'd put a bee in her purse when they were six, was lying in the bath tub with a bone-white face and a blood-soaked towel over her chest. She looked up at Rebecca dozily. Rebecca sucked in a breath, tried to unfreeze her brain. She spoke quietly. "Are they still in the apartment?"

Katie furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. Then she said calmly, "No ... I think he left. Did I make a mess? I put towels...I'm gonna lose us our deposit." She suddenly sounded wobbly and anxious, as if she was about to cry. Rebecca felt sick.

"Okay, listen up. I'm going to check the rest of the apartment, and then I'm coming back here and I'm calling you an ambulance. Hold tight, all right?" She tried to give Katie a perky grin, though it probably only scared the poor girl: Rebecca's reassuring face sucked ass and she knew it.

It only took a moment to check the rest of the flat: two small bedrooms, the broom closet, and the living room again, just to be sure no one had snuck back. Okay. She holstered her gun, raced back into the bathroom, put a hand to the side of Katie's throat. Her pulse felt crazy fast under Rebecca's hand.Without looking at her, Katie said quietly, "I already called them. The ambulance. I called them after he left. Then I came in here." She was wheezing. God, it sounded nasty.

Rebecca gave her another crappy, unconvincing grin. "Then we'll wait for them. Do you remember how long it's been?"

Katie looked up at Rebecca and shook her head.

"Okay, I'm gonna take a look at this; see if we can do something about the bleeding. Did this asshole stab you?"

Katie creaked, "I got shot."

Shit. Gently, Rebecca peeled off the soaked tea towel, dropping it on the floor. Katie was wearing a thin blouse underneath, so sopping wet with blood that it was difficult to tell where it had all come from.

Rebecca pulled out her army pocketknife, carefully cut off the buttons, then peeled open the shirt. There was a round little hole on the lower left of Katie's chest, which was seeping blood slowly. Had it hit her lung, was that why she was wheezing like that?

Rebecca thought back to procedure, and carried on looking. There was another entry wound down by Katie's belly button. This one was bleeding worse. Oh God, this was just unreal. How the fuck was this war zone shit happening in her own apartment, to her nice-girl, pansy-ass politician roomie? Since when did burglars in Central start carrying handguns anyway? Weren't they all meant to be pimply fifteen-year-old boys with switchblades? She grabbed a hand towel, folded it a couple times and pressed it firmly down, one hand over either wound. Katie made a miserable little sound in her throat.

Now what was the next thing? Right, next you were supposed to keep the person talking. Okay, and the police, she'd need to tell them what had happened once Katie was in hospital getting all those holes sewn up. "Katie? Can you tell me what happened?"

For a moment, Katie didn't respond. She just pursed her lips and frowned hard, as if she was chewing it over. Or maybe she was just in pain. Two holes in your front, that had to hurt like crazy. Well, she imagined it would anyway; somehow, Rebecca had managed to get through her career so far without being shot.

Then Katie spoke, her voice soft and croaky. "I was making cheese noodles." She wasn't looking at Rebecca. Instead she was staring straight ahead of her, up to the ceiling and right through it. Her face was calm and dopey. "I drained the noodles and I went to the icebox. And then I got out the butter and the cheese." She sounded like she was trying to work out where she'd misplaced her keys or something. "Then I went to get the cheese grater, and I turned around, and there was a man standing right there in the living room."

Rebecca pictured it. Their kitchen was actually a tiny corner of the living room, partly blocked off by the icebox and a corner of internal wall. When someone was rummaging in the icebox, you couldn't see them from the living room, but then when Katie had turned around...but how the hell hadn't she heard the guy break in?

"What happened then? He just shot you?"

"Yeah. It was so funny, we just looked at each other...for the longest time. Then I came up to him, and I said -" She paused, leaned forward a bit and stayed there, breathing hard. There was a bit of blood on her mouth. Rebecca looked at her watch.

Katie started up again. "I said - "God, I thought you were a burglar or something" - because I thought you must have brought him home or something -" Rebecca bristled a bit at that. She had a boyfriend! She knew Katie not-so-secretly thought she was a slut, but seriously, now was so not the time. "And then he got out a gun, and - he shot me."

"Do you know what happened to the bookcase? Did you fall on it?"

"No - he moved stuff - after-" Katie was starting to look really, really bad. She'd sunk back again against the wall of the tub now, and she was rasping and sucking air like she was breathing through cloth. Shit, where was this supposed ambulance? Did they forget the meaning of Emergency Services? What were they doing, stopping for donuts?

"Do you remember what he looked like?" Rebecca regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, because Katie so obviously wasn't up to a response anymore. Katie screwed her face up in concentration, grabbed the side of the tub, and tried to pull in air and push out words, but it was all just croaking and horrible, wet sounds.

"Stop! Calm down, calm down. It's okay, just breathe."

Katie obeyed her instantly, like a little kid. She lay back and most of the tension went out of her face, but as for just breathing – that wasn’t going so well. Rebecca sat with her, listening for the knock at the door.

Rebecca had never been a patient woman. After a minute or two of silence, Katie's rattling breaths and a complete lack of ambulance crew sprinting into the apartment, she couldn't take it any more.

"Katie? I'm just gonna call the ambulance people. I'll be five seconds, okay?"

Rebecca sprinted the few steps to the phone in the hallway, and had the ambulance service dialled up before she'd even remembered the number. She was speaking the moment she heard the phone pick up. "Hey. Can you tell me what time the ambulance is getting to Holyhead Mansions, 415 Krugman?"

"What's the nature of the medical emergency?"

"No, no, my friend called the ambulance already. It's supposed to be on its way, and she has two gunshot wounds, and we need it to be here, like now."

"At what time did your friend make the call?"

"I don't know - maybe a half hour ago? It was before I got here. Just check - and, can you radio, can you get them to hurry it up? I don't want to leave her long."

"Let me check the card index for you." There were shuffling noises as the operator left her seat. In the background, Rebecca could hear the murmurs of the other operators in the room, busy on their own calls. Come on people, come on. What part of gunshot wounds - wounds! As in more than one! - were they not understanding?

There was a crackling on the line, and the operator was back. "Ma'am? I'm afraid we don't have any record of such a call."

Rebecca felt her brain freeze solid for a second. Then it unfroze in a flash of rage.

"What the fuck? She called, she called. Check again!" She had called, right? This better not be like that time Katie swore she'd paid the gas bill and the whole time the envelope had been stuck down the side of the gramophone.

"There's no need for profanity," said the voice down the phone, all prissy.

Rebecca laughed short and hard. "Are? You sending me a god-damn" - she rolled out the curse word slower - "ambulance?"

"An emergency vehicle is already on its way to you now, ma'am."

Without acknowledging the operator, Rebecca slammed the phone receiver back in its cradle, hard. Then she lifted it back up and dialled Riza's flat. After a few rings, someone picked up. She didn't even bother to see if it was her. Instead, she barked, "Riza, get a freaking ambulance to my house. Katie's shot. The ambulance guys are morons." Then she hung up.

Done with the calls, she wandered back into the bathroom on shaky legs. Katie was still exactly as Rebecca had left her, staring at the ceiling, hands in her lap and that horrible, shocky, don't-care look on her face. Rebecca reached in, squeezed her hand. Katie ignored her, so Rebecca squeezed harder, and put a hand up to stroke her face. Then she realised.

***

  


***

At 0630, Roy found Riza standing in uniform by the park's pavilion with pink, sleepy eyes and two paper cups of coffee. Roy smiled as he approached, and waved his bag of almond pastries at her. They started walking deeper into the trees. After a couple of minutes, they found a clearing, perched on a log, and swapped a pastry for a coffee. It was a glorious spring morning. The skies were clear and the early morning sunlight was bright. There was a little breeze, and a slight chill still hanging in the air. It was too goddamn early.

Riza blew on the surface of her coffee, took a sip, and got started. "Katherine Flowers, thirty-two years of age. She's - she was - a parliamentary civil servant. She ran the Speaker's Office for him. She was also a rising politician herself. The Progressive Republic Party listed her as a prospective parliamentary candidate for next year."

"Ah. So she was one of ours. I was trying to remember where I'd heard her name. This coffee needs to kick in. How did she come to be sharing a flat with Captain Catalina?"

"School friends. And Rebecca is like you about officers' quarters, she hates to live at work. I knew Katie through Rebecca, a little. I also gather that there was a certain amount of helping each other out career-wise, which is part of the reason I think we should pay attention to this. The police officers I spoke to told me they thought Katie had interrupted a burglar. Violent robberies are getting pretty common, these days ..." Riza paused, collecting her thoughts. "However, this is something I think we might want to look into ourselves discreetly. It's possible that either Katie or Rebecca could have been the intended target."

"So your theory is, this might have been deliberate murder disguised as a burglary? And that it's possible that Ms. Flowers was murdered by mistake?"

"Those are both possibilities, yes."

"Then should we also be considering that it may have been a burglary, but of a more targeted and specific kind?"

"To steal information or documents, you mean? I hope to God that Rebecca hasn't been taking anything home with her from the office."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "So do I. If Catalina's been that idiotic, it'll have been a real failure of judgement on my part. I brought her on board, I gave her my trust, I put up with her and Havoc mooning at each other across the office and sneaking off like kids ..." He sighed. It was just too early in the morning. "So, of course you're not just guessing about this. What exactly made you think there's more to it than a random break-in?"  
"Rebecca says Katie claimed to have called an ambulance after the burglary, but then when she telephoned to check, the ambulance service had no record of the call. So I woke Fuery up and got him to check the exchange. A call was placed from their telephone to the ambulance service at 2139." She paused for a beat. "Rebecca arrived home at 2247."

Roy tipped his head back for a moment and took a breath of the crisp, grassy morning air. "If someone interfered with the call, or with the service themselves, in order to prevent Ms. Flowers from gaining medical attention...that would imply they were planning for her death."

Riza nodded, pursing her lips for a moment. "You're right. If that's true, we're looking at intentional murder, although the intended target could have been either of them, given Katie Flowers' political career. Ah - it couldn't just have been planned as a document theft, then. I wasn't considering that. I'm rather tired ... I should be focusing better than this."

Roy smiled at her, ruefully. "We're both tired. We're all tired. This is appallingly timed." He took a gulp of his cooling coffee and thought for a moment. "Also, if they didn't check they had the right woman, that would make them pretty incompetent."

Riza gave him one of her wry little smiles. "If every troublemaker was competent, Brigadier General, we'd be getting even less sleep."

Roy smirked back. They sat side by side for a few moments, eating their pastries and looking into the trees. Roy finished his, brushed the crumbs from his trousers, and sank the rest of his coffee. "So," he said. "This business of the ambulance. If your reasoning is correct, that this was a political killing, the order would have had to come from high up."

"Yes. If we're right, this is the brass."

"Ah." And now he saw the whole thing. With things as precarious as they were, one political murder, whether it was of a parliamentarian or an officer, could be enough for the military to start tearing itself apart. A single spark ... and it wouldn't necessarily have to be someone important. Like Ishbal. "So, we're one gunshot from a civil war. If someone from Hakuro's faction fired that shot, for whatever reason ..."

"-And whether or not they were acting with his knowledge-"

"...Then we need to know about it, and know why. Best case scenario, we can get some real leverage over Hakuro out of this. But the worst case ..." Roy didn't finish, just puffed out a breath that made his chest ache tightly, and looked sidelong at Riza.

She'd crumpled her paper bag into a little ball in her hand. She turned towards him a little, and nodded, her jaw clenched.

It was much, much too early in the morning. Why did it have to be like this? The coups he'd read about - well, researched, to be honest - all seemed to begin and end quick and dirty. Seize the military, the communications, the banks, put out a radio announcement, and be swivelling round in the big chair by lunchtime. This is what he got for trying to do things bloodlessly. Political murders, deals upon deals, machinations, endless piles of morally dubious bullshit to wade through, and all this before he even got to the top. He had to admit, Olivia Armstrong had had a good point about these things after all. Misguided, dogmatic, morally abhorrent - but still, a point.

***

Wheat beer was sour, but in a good way, Alphonse decided. He took another sip from his bottle, then put it down, lacing his fingers around it. The bottle was cold from the bar's icebox, and wet with condensation. God, it was such a warm evening out for April. Didn't it normally get chillier than this at night during spring? He tried to think back, but couldn't remember. It had been so long since he'd felt spring rather than just seen it. He could feel the bottle's label against his palm; the paper felt softer and warmer than the glass. The beer was citrusy, that was it, the sourness was a little bit like lemon. The chill of it slipped all the way down his throat.

He smiled a bit, and ran a fingernail round the edge of the label. It was peeling back away from the bottle, and still crisp. The exposed edge felt a little sharp under his nail. What did a papercut feel like? Did it hurt a lot? People always seemed to make a fuss over them.

An explosive clap sounded right behind his left ear. He jerked and whirled around in his seat. Immediately, he overbalanced and tipped backwards - arms cartwheeling uselessly, catching hold of nothing - and landed straight on to the sawdusty floor while his asshole brother laughed and laughed in his face.

"So, you're still zoning out, huh? Seriously, you need to stop doing that." Ed put down his suitcase, popped himself up onto the next stool, and raised a pointed arm in a dramatic pose. "In these uncertain times, danger lurks everywhere! I knock you on your ass for your own good. This is teaching!"

The last argument might not have worked for most people, but Ed and Al's notions of the learning experience had very strong associations of violence attached. Al imagined that if the university ever landed him that after-school tuition work they'd been threatening, that this could turn into a problem.

After he'd climbed back onto his stool, Al smiled at the bartender and waggled his bottle, motioning for another wheat beer. At least Ed seemed to be in a good mood, which was a rare thing these days. He said, "So, I quite like this place. They do all these strange kinds of beer, and there's kind of a funny mix of people. And some of the people are cute girls."

Ed looked around, taking in the tiny old lady at the end of the bar, the bowler-hatted businessmen, the off-duty builders in one corner and the gaggle of fashionable university students in another. "It seems better than the Three Crowns, that's for sure." The Three Crowns was their local, but they'd made a pact to hate it after Ed had sent a spoiled beer back and the trendy, snotty barman had accused them both of being underage. Well, Al technically had been underage at the time, but only by about three weeks. It hardly seemed fair. Ed took a sip from the fresh bottle that was placed before him, then scrunched up his face. "This beer tastes like lemon juice."

"I think it's supposed to. The barman says they just got it in for the summer."

"Well, it's weird. But hey, at least their icebox has ice in it. That puts them one up from that dump down the street."

Al laughed, and took a swig of his weird lemon-beer. "So, how was the thing in Yarvil?" Al felt a pang of guilt as he asked. He had originally meant to go along with Ed, but his research was getting so close to a breakthrough now, and it had pulled him away.

"Crappy. And pointless. You were totally right not to come. At least this way only one of us was insanely bored for five days."

Al tried not to look guilty, and knew instantly that he'd failed. His face still just seemed to crack expressions without asking him first. He needed to practice this more.

Ed took his beer and saluted the air. "One more month! Only thirty more days of this military bullshit, then I'm free!" He took a sip. "And when my contract is up, I am gonna march into Mustang's office, I'm gonna slap this" - he tugged his pocket watch chain -"down on his desk, and I'm gonna say-"

"We are _both_ going to walk into his office, and we are going to thank the man, properly. We couldn't have done it without him, Ed. So I'm not going to let you be an ass about it." This had to be the fifth time they'd had this conversation already.

“ _He_ couldn't have done it without us either. We're quits! No, in fact, I do still owe him something, because _in fact_ , he hasn't even done what he's supposed to yet." Ah, the 520 cenz. Despite the fact that he understood full well the situation with Hakuro and the schism in the military, Ed had seemed to take it personally that Mustang wasn't yet Fuhrer.

Should Al mention that Winry had called? No, he'd better not. Ed would be rattled, and he wouldn’t want to show it, and they would end up awkwardly going over the whole relationship thing again, which Ed didn't want to talk about and Al kind of didn't want to talk about either. Especially after Winry had already poured her heart out to him for two hours on the phone earlier that day.

It had been the same conversation he'd had with her several times over the last couple of months, and he was sure this wouldn't be the last time either. Did Al hate her now? Of course he didn’t, she was family. Did he think she and Ed could ever be friends again? Of _course_ they would, they were _family_ , right? She didn’t want to be with him like that again, no way, but she really missed him, did Al get that? Of course he did – both parts of it. Why did Ed and her have to screw everything up? Well, jeez, Al didn’t know. Because they’d been sweet on each other for years and even a haunted lump of iron could tell something was bound to happen sometime? Because life was complicated like that? Because his brother could be an insensitive dick?

Al hadn’t said most of these things. Instead he had spent most of the call saying "oh" and "mm" in different tones of voice, wishing he could just hug Winry over the phone instead. Al felt helpless, and he hated that. Ed was the only person who could really reassure Winry that they were going to get through this weird, horrible, heartbreak phase, and that one day soon they’d be friends again. But persuading Ed to call her was proving about as amicable and straightforward as the current state of Amestrian politics. Al suspected that Ed was just as worried and sad as Winry, but knew full well that he wouldn’t want to do a "lame girl thing" like _talk it through_.

In fact, Ed sorely needed a good talking to – a talking to Al had delivered four times in the last fortnight. The results were: one living room door off its hinges, one large coffee stain on the floor, a couple of nasty bruises each (talking about it while sparring had not been such a great idea) and pretty much no appreciable change of attitude from Ed. At least he hadn’t busted his automail. If Ed did that right now, he was really screwed. Although Al supposed it would at least get them talking … and he derailed that train of thought before it really, really got him into trouble.

He'd been so simply and dumbly happy for them both when it all started the summer after the Promised Day, when he'd seen the two of them walking in from the fields holding hands, and he'd thought that all of the loose ends in their lives were coming together. But of course the holiday had to end sometime: Winry had a job that she loved that was halfway across the country, and Ed, much as he hated it, had a military contract that wasn't up yet...and that was where it had all gotten complicated with the two of them.

Al himself was fine. He did kind of need to work out what he wanted to do with his life, but really, that wasn't so much of a problem. In the meantime, he had his studies, and Ed's company - much as he wasn't always fun to be around right now - and the city itself. Since their return after the coup, Central seemed to be springing to life around them - bars, cabaret, music, art, weird radical street theatre that made no sense. Of course, there was also the increasingly scary amount of violent crime, but after years of fighting homunculi and chimerae and crazed alchemists, it was difficult to get properly nervous about that. Hey, that reminded him.

"Hey, Ed, did you see today's paper yet? You know Captain Catalina from the office? Her roommate got murdered by a burglar."

Ed's head snapped round so fast that his ponytail hit the guy standing behind him right in the eye.

***

  


  


***

  
"Put me on the Flowers case."

Fullmetal, lean, wiry and stubbled, was leaning against the back of Roy's office sofa with his arms folded in front of his chest.

"Are you trying to give an order to your superior officer?"

Edward stuck his chin out, his I-won't-budge expression. "Why not? It's not like you've got me on anything else."

True, but Roy was more focused on how, within the space of a single day, Edward had even heard about their supposedly discreet and unofficial investigation of Flowers' death. The gossip in his offices was appalling. Time to get Major Hawkeye to have another one of her little chats with everyone?

If it had been a few years ago, he would have known exactly which meddling, overbearing loudmouth had spilled the beans to Fullmetal. Then again, the answer was still fairly obvious, wasn't it?

He raised his voice above the background hum of the office. "Havoc! Stop gossiping like a housewife and do your damn job!"

Across the room, Havoc looked up with a fairly convincing expression of startled innocence. "Me, sir?" His new position was making him into a much better liar.

Roy gave him a sharp look and held it. After a moment, Havoc blinked and looked away, then contritely went back to his survey of the financial paper. Another small battle won.

Roy returned his focus to Edward. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. "So, where did this sudden desire to help come from?"

Edward - Fullmetal, still for the next twenty-nine days - looked awkward. He fidgeted, hopped his butt further up on the sofa back he was leaning on. "I'm interested in the case?"

Roy wasn't buying it. "You have less than a month left. This sort of enquiry isn't exactly your speciality. And neither is _asking_ me for work."

"Look, this is gonna be my last job, right? I might as well do something that isn't a total waste of time. If I don't ask, you're just gonna give me some pointless busy-work crap to remind me I'm not free yet."

He was being defensive. Edward was on the ropes already. Pleased, Roy pressed ahead. "So, Fullmetal, what _exactly_ makes this assignment worth your time?" He gave Edward a challenging look.

Edward tried for a stubborn glare, then he looked down. He muttered, "She made me dinner."

Roy raised an eyebrow. So that was it, then. "The way to a man's heart ..."

Fullmetal jerked upright and snapped "No! It wasn't like that! Get your mind out of the gutter, Mustang."

Roy laughed inwardly. Flowers was thirty-two, for goodness' sake. He hadn't been implying anything more than that the best way for anyone to make an impression on Edward was to feed the man. Still, it was gratifying that after all these years, Fullmetal seemed to have developed such a marked Pavlovian response to his teasing that Roy hardly needed to say a word to get a reaction.

Then, almost guiltily, Ed offered his explanation. "It was just the one time ... It was a couple weeks ago. Al used all the typewriter ribbon and it was a Sunday, so I had to go write my report at the office. Havoc and Catalina were there, too, and we were all kind of messing around in between work stuff, and then when I got finished up we all went to Catalina's place to grab some take-out. Only when we got there Katie was in, and she had this big pot of stew on, and she made us all share. She didn't even make it for us; she didn't know anyone was gonna be in. It was pretty nice of her, and y'know, the stew was really good." Ed frowned, as if he was searching his mind. "I wanted to do something to say thanks, so I was gonna ask Catalina if they had anything at the apartment that needed fixing. But then I was out of town for the Yarvil thing - total bullshit, by the way, read my report - and when I got back ..."

Edward and his alchemist's need to balance the scales. Roy smiled. "All right, Fullmetal. Meet me here at thirteen hundred. We'll take a walk, and I'll get you up to speed on things." Then he added, "Bring some sandwiches."


	2. What Would Maes hughes Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the investigation battles on without the one person who could have solved it in five minutes.

  
It said a lot about the difficulties of the Flowers case that, as Roy ploughed through a stack of documents on the murder, he was actually becoming tempted to attack his in-tray instead. Thanks to a little bribery, Roy had in his hands an official copy of the Central Metropolitan Police file on the case. It had been disgustingly easy to obtain, though he didn't take much comfort in that thought. The police were treating the murder as a burglary gone wrong. That they weren't considering investigating any further said a great deal about both the burgeoning rate of violent crime and the dubious quality of local policing. The report gave sparse details outlining the crime. No one had seen the killer enter the building, which was not a surprise given how simple it would have been to follow a resident in at one of the entrances. Sometime around 2130, a loud crash had been heard by several tenants in nearby apartments, although, being good city dwellers, they had done nothing to investigate. He supposed they were lucky Catalina had been there to take a statement from Ms. Flowers herself before the inevitable, as they didn't have much else to go on.

Roy succumbed, and glanced over to the memo on top of his in-tray. It was actually rather promising: an argument from one of the neutral generals Roy had hopes of winning over, in favour of a renaming the restored University Park in memory of Olivia Armstrong. This hadn't been Roy's idea, but he was passionately in favour for several reasons. The first was that Major Armstrong liked the idea, and he liked Major Armstrong, owed the man a great deal and also felt somewhat sorry for him. The second reason was that to do so would reinforce the official excuse for the big coup, that after a long life of working tirelessly for Amestris, Bradley had suddenly snapped and declined into violent insanity. Olivia Armstrong and Mustang had together been forced to take rapid, terrible and courageous action to save the country and - God help them all - Bradley's legacy. Of course, the brass were well aware of what sad trash this explanation was. They all knew enough of the truth about both Bradley and the coup that if enough of them voted for this proposal to pass it, it would be a symbolic victory for Roy, a thorn in Hakuro's side, and another step towards the true vote of confidence he needed to take power.

Finally - and this was the kicker - there was the fact that the posthumously promoted General Armstrong would have hated with a blistering passion the idea of having her name attached to the park, this place where students, slackers and bored office workers lounged about on the grass. This place where people skipped work, ate ices, made out in public and napped in the daytime. To annoy Olivia Armstrong beyond the grave felt like a fitting tribute to their working relationship. Also, to be fair, had their positions been reversed - had he been impaled on a dying homunculus' sword and had she survived to struggle her way to the top - he was sure that she would have done the same for him. That is, he would have been tremendously pleased to have had University Park renamed after him - for pretty much all the reasons she would have hated it - and so she doubtless would have prevented the renaming purely in order to irritate his wandering ghost. Truly, Roy's in-tray rarely saw such a satisfying opportunity to hit so many targets with a single shot. It was so good that unfortunately, he was going to have to set aside the task of writing his reply as a reward for when he'd slogged through the rest of the Flowers papers. He grudgingly turned back to his task.

Roy skimmed the autopsy report - trauma and blood loss, no surprises there - closed the police file and moved on to a stack of photographs of the crime scene and an accompanying report. These had been taken not by the police, whose own documentation of the scene had been both cursory and inadequate. Instead, these were from his own men. Fuery and Falman had been dispatched to the apartment with Captain Catalina's keys early on Saturday morning with orders to make a comprehensive record of what they found. Poor Fuery, this is what he had gotten for mentioning his hobbies around the office. After a troop of metropolitan police officers had laid their sticky hands all over the apartment, there was little point in attempting any fingerprinting. Roy turned to Falman's report, which as usual was an exhaustive recitation of every relevant and irrelevant detail: long, dull as a telephone directory and, unfortunately, exactly what was called for in this instance. He stopped feeling sorry for Fuery and started feeling sorry for himself. Was there perhaps anything left in that pot of coffee?

Once in the little office kitchen, Roy stood at the open window and sipped at his mug of lukewarm, bitter coffee. There was something more to this case than burglary. He and Hawkeye were both sure of it - and if he could doubt his own instincts, he could never fault Riza's - but whatever motive that was hidden beneath the surface was currently eluding him in a most taunting way. Perhaps it was time to consult Madam Christmas? He knew his foster mother was currently pretty busy with the construction of her new bar, but she could never resist a good mystery, and besides, most of the girls would be at a loose end. Perhaps if he stopped by her place and ran it by them, they might spot something that had escaped him and his team.

Of course, the one person whose opinion Roy _really_ needed on the case, he couldn't ask.

The moment he allowed himself to think that, Roy's stomach gave a nauseous twist around the coffee. Clearly, this was what was really bothering him this morning. Five minutes with this towering junk-heap of detail and incident, and Hughes would have sifted straight through all the crap to the one or two points that really mattered. He would have pulled a lead, a theory and likely a suspect list seemingly from thin air and made it all look easy. Then he would have grinned and savoured Roy's annoyance, and persuaded him out for a drink after work, in order to witter endlessly about his brilliant and sexy wife and his gifted and adorable child, and probably also to try and push Roy into proposing to Hawkeye through the power of incessant badgering alone.

None of these things were going to happen.

In theory, there was a point in time at which these sudden, violent surges of memory were supposed to become almost painless; a bittersweet, nostalgic pleasure instead of something that made your guts clench, that made you want to smash a fist through the nearest window. After four years, Roy was long done waiting for it.

He tipped the rest of the cold coffee into the sink, then stalked back to his desk to stare fruitlessly at photographs of bloodstains and carpet.

***

Havoc pivoted to face the wall, flicked on the brakes of his wheelchair, and lifted the latest box of books out of his lap and on top of the existing pile of crates in the hallway of Katie and Rebecca's apartment. It was Monday morning, and Katie's little sister, Peggy, who lived on the other side of town, was actually supposed to be helping Rebecca clear her late sister's possessions from the apartment. However, Mustang and Hawkeye had put their heads together, and Hawkeye had strongarmed poor Rebecca into phoning Peggy and kindly offering to spare her the burden of sifting through her dead sister's possessions. Rebecca could get her friend, Riza, to help pack up, so the girl could go and be with her family. As for Havoc, he'd just had an unexpected morning off after a client with the summer flu cancelled on him last minute. As with much of his time off, he'd been hoping to spend it taking Rebecca out somewhere nice. Instead, he had ended up spending it with work outside of the office. Being on Team Mustang, as ever, was a seven-day-week kind of job.

As ever, there was the official reason they were here doing this, and then there was the real reason Mustang had ordered them here. They were in fact combing the apartment for any evidence that might suggest why someone would want to shoot a nice, well-behaved career girl and junior league politician in her bachelorette pad. There was always the possibility that they had in fact been after Rebecca and were just really awful at checking their facts. However, this was starting to look increasingly unlikely.

Mustang, Hawkeye, Rebecca and Havoc had established in a short meeting on Saturday afternoon that there was no reason that Captain Catalina should be targeted by persons unknown, i.e. Hakuro's gang of asswipes. Havoc wasn't even supposed to be working on this case, he had other things to work on of his own. However, he had rapidly realised that the reason he'd been called to the meeting was because Mustang had considered the possibility that Rebecca might be covering up that she had done something dumb, like accidentally leak a secret document, or claim after five gin slings that she was going to give Hakuro a bullet between the eyes. If that had indeed been the case, Havoc knew that Mustang was sure that he would ultimately feel obliged to rat out his girlfriend, thereby sacrificing another potentially good relationship to the Great Goal in the Sky. Thanks, boss.

Luckily, Havoc had chosen wisely this time. While Rebecca did a lot of ridiculous things after five gin slings (most of them kind of fun), she did not blab secrets or boast about non-existent assassination plans. Rebecca was solid. So she had bristled, and Havoc had bristled, and Hawkeye had sighed a lot, and Mustang had pinched the bridge of his nose. Then they'd moved on and established that Rebecca, unlike Mustang or other members of his team, was not important enough that someone would assassinate her purely to damage their faction. At this point, things had been so awkward that Mustang had insisted on taking them all for a quick early evening drink in the officers' mess. Rebecca had quickly made it painfully obvious to all of them that she knew Mustang was doing this because he wanted to make it up to Havoc, but pretty much didn't care about her own hurt feelings. The drinks had become almost more awkward than the meeting. Very small glasses of lager had been hastily downed, and they had departed rapidly in several directions. Thanks again, chief.

Next to the pile of boxes in the hall, Hayate lay obediently flat, thumping his tail against the hall carpet. Hawkeye sat by the telephone table not far from him. She was using a bottle of white spirit and a tissue to carefully clean the blood from the phone receiver. She gave Havoc a little smile, and nodded towards the living room where Rebecca was currently sorting her own possessions from her flatmate's. "How's she doing?"

"She's holding up good. It's funny, Becky likes to complain about the small stuff, but she's really a tough little nut, isn't she?" In reality, Rebecca had spent an hour crying like a kid in his arms the previous night - but she'd kill him if he told Hawkeye that - and somehow, he felt good about protecting Rebecca's dignity like this.

Hawkeye smiled in that noncommittal way she had that told you nothing about whether she'd bought your web of lies. "And do we have any clues?"

"Nope. Not a thing so far. We haven't found anything strange in Katie's books and papers, just boring party politics stuff: flyers and memos of constituency meetings, 'Can we get the city council to fix the broken street lamps on Hornbeam Street', and one hell of a collection of movie magazines. Maybe the burglar, assassin, whatever, got whatever he came for?"

"That's likely. Still, it's better if we make a thorough check."

"Hey, Jean!" Down the hall, Rebecca had poked her head out the living room doorway. "I need a strong pair of arms over here. The coffee table drawer's totally wedged shut."

Havoc turned on a dime, somehow managing to avoid both Hayate's tail and the pile of boxes, heading straight to the living room to help out. In a good detective novel, this is where they'd hit a clue: a note with half of it torn off, a monogrammed handkerchief with initials shared by three different suspects, that kind of thing. Havoc was betting that back here in the real world, all any of them was going to get out of this morning was backache.

The hall carpet was smeared with nasty, red-brown stains. In one of them, he could distinctly make out the shape of a small, bare footprint. What kind of fucking asshole had this burglar been anyway? Inside the living room, Rebecca had just about cleared a path for him around the piles of books, records, papers, plates, bowls and other assorted junk.

"You never realise how much pointless crap you have until you move house, huh?" She was trying to sound perky, but there was a sharp edge to her voice. Jeez, she didn't have to be such a trouper about it, this was him. A moment later it occurred to Havoc that no, it wasn't just him. Hawkeye was here, too, and much as she and Rebecca were good friends, they had this weird competitive thing going on. Then again, he guessed he was like that with his buddies too. He went over and squeezed her hand, and Becky gave him a twitchy little grin. Behind them, he heard Hawkeye walking quietly through the hall, ready to start going through the bedroom.

"So, you're definitely not going to stay on and get a new roommate?"

"Nah. Sick of this asshole landlord. I know we're paid up until the end of the month, but I'd rather haul all my stuff out of here and just dump it in a dorm room already." Good, because that had been crazy talk. He didn't consider himself an overbearing boyfriend, but truthfully he would have been uncomfortable to see Becky stay here now.

"I told you. Come and stay at mine, there's plenty of room." Was he going to regret this? He gave it a day before Breda was making predictions of married doom and miming a whip.

Rebecca smiled at him. " _I'll_ stay, but there's no way you have room for my pointy shoe collection. Seriously, you're not ready for it."

Havoc, if he was honest with himself, was kind of enjoying this right now. Rebecca was athletic, capable and an awesome shot, all things he very much liked about her - especially "athletic" - but that time they got mugged last month, he'd been the one spilled on his ass in the mud, and she'd been the one chasing down and pistol-whipping the dickwad with the knife. It had been a big blow to his manhood to say the least, much as he hated to admit it. He needed to know that when the chips were down, he was still the guy, and even if he knew he was kind of a douche for thinking it, holding his cute, hard-ass little girlfriend while she sobbed into his shoulder and got tears and snot all over his t-shirt: well, it kind of made him feel like the guy.

He eyed the height of the coffee table, then used his left arm and upper abs to haul himself forward and get a grip on the drawer handle with his right. Rebecca cut in, "Just don't break the handle, pal. The landlord's being enough of an ass as it is." He grinned at her easily, tested the drawer - definitely wedged shut - then gave the handle a good strong yank. The drawer flew open, out of the table, and into his lap.

Inside was a yellowing bill from the gas company, a pencil, two dead flies and a pair of scissors. The scissors must have been what was holding the drawer shut. So much for mystery.

Just then, there was a loud rapping at the apartment door. Havoc thought, _Katie's sister came after all. Or maybe_ \- The three of them got out into the big, square hall at the same time. They exchanged looks. Hawkeye shifted watchfully, and Rebecca tucked her sidearm into the back of her pants. Havoc moved to the door and reached forward for the latch.

"Hey there," he said to the man standing in the doorway. He was somewhere in his sixties, small and dapper in an old-fashioned suit and a round-collared shirt.

The man smiled disarmingly and said, "Hello. I am so, so sorry to interrupt you at this terrible time. You must be Katherine's little brother?" His voice was soft, gentle and polite, but there was something surprised in it. He hadn't been expecting to see Havoc and the girls there, that was for sure.

"Nah, I'm not family. Just here to help her roommate with some things. Were you looking for someone?"

"No, no. It's uh, rather a small thing. I don't like to trouble you with it..." His manner was hesitant. He gave the same sweet, apologetic smile. It was somehow too large for his face. His eyes were twinkly and sharp. He kind of reminded Havoc of a clever little monkey, a pet an old girlfriend of his once had. Havoc had never gotten along with that monkey. The damn thing bit.

The man shifted forward, as if he was expecting Havoc to move back and let him in. Havoc didn't move, and Hawkeye and Rebecca moved forward to flank him. They all waited.

The old man frowned a little and his eyes got big and uncertain, as if their rudeness was making him feel guilty. He said, still soft, "Erm, I was a party comrade of poor Katherine's. I lent her a book recently. It's a funny old thing, rather silly, but she liked old books very much, and I thought she might find it interesting. I wasn't going to call on you, but I'm afraid my wife insisted on it. The book's rather valuable, you see, because of its age. Might I come in and look for it?"

Rebecca cut in. "Well, we've just about finished going through Katie's things. What's this book look like?"

"It's rather small, about so big" - he held up his hands to show - "brown leather binding, very old and delicate. You'd know if you saw it, I'm sure. Perhaps if I could look?" He edged forward again, and actually put a hand softly to the frame of Havoc's chair, as if to move him out of the way like a piece of furniture. Havoc clicked on his brakes and eyeballed the guy aggressively. Just you try, buddy.

Hawkeye smiled politely and shifted a little, letting him see the gun holster under her jacket. "I'm afraid we haven't seen anything like that," she said. "But if you left your name and address, perhaps we could let you know if we come across it?"

The man stepped backwards and coughed. His face was sharp and watchful and his eyes flicked around the three of them, as if taking them in properly for the first time. Then he started to babble softly. "Oh no, oh no. I couldn't possibly trouble you ... never mind. Never mind. Thank you." And with a jerky, polite nod, he turned away. His shoes tapped down the hallway.

The man's steps faded out slowly, and then they heard the ping of the elevator doors opening. Havoc shut the apartment door and turned to the girls. "What the hell was that all about?"

Hawkeye looked at them both quietly for a moment, then she walked over to where her bag lay by the coatstand, opened it up and pulled out a tiny book bound in plain brown leather. She handed it to Havoc, and said, "Careful. It's very old."

Havoc asked her "Where did you find it?" at the same time Rebecca squeaked, "Why did you just hide it in your bag?"

Hawkeye looked guilty. It was a strange look on her. "I - didn't think it was necessary to tell you about this. I was going to take it straight to the brigadier general. It's best that a State Alchemist we can trust deals with this book."

Havoc replied "So what's up with it?" at the same time as Rebecca screeched, "Why didn't you tell us?"

Hawkeye flopped back down onto the telephone seat, and exhaled hard. Then she said, "I know this book. It's a very rare alchemic text, hundreds of years old."

Havoc said, "You know it from your dad, huh?"

"Your dad was an _alchemist_? Why don't I know that? How come you told _him_ , but I don't know?" Hawkeye hadn't exactly told him about her father, but it was long and complicated and best left for later. For now, they needed to focus on this book.

Hawkeye looked trapped, which was another expression he wasn't used to seeing on her. She answered very quietly, "He had a copy of it. But it's illegal. It's banned."

"Jeez. Human transmutation, huh?" Why did it seem that every banned text or secret clue they stumbled upon somehow came back to that? It wasn't a thought he liked to linger on.

Rebecca looked at them blankly. "Human trana-what? Is that a bad thing?"

"I couldn't tell you. I never even opened my father's copy."

Havoc took another look at the book, tiny, fragile and decaying in his hands. A lot of things to do with alchemy were often much more dangerous than they looked. Carefully, he cracked it open. Rebecca and Hawkeye leant forwards over his shoulders to get a look.

The title page said, in old-fashioned, wonky printing, "The Perfection of Matter". There was no author's name. Below the title, there was a creepy little picture of a man in robes holding a square carved box with a big eye painted on it.

Rebecca said with a kind of awe, "Alchemists are such _nutjobs_." Hawkeye and Havoc both frowned at her.

She shrugged. "What? No offence to our fearless leader, I'm totally loyal, 'till the day I die, rah rah rah go team. But - tell me you don't have to be sorta weird to want one of _those_." She jabbed a finger at the freaky eye-box.

Hawkeye and Havoc exchanged looks, and silently agreed that they were going to have to concede the point.

***

Ed had had every intention of showing up without the sandwiches, really he had, but when he had found himself wandering back to Central Headquarters just before 1300, he had passed that deli that he liked and quite suddenly had realised that he was absolutely starving. Then he had intended to head in, buy a pastry and scoff it on the way to the meeting point, claiming he'd forgotten he was supposed to bring any lunch. By the time he'd gotten to the front of the line, however, his resolve had weakened. That patiently nagging inner voice of his, the one that alternately sounded like his mother or Teacher or Al, or - more recently - even Winry, had won its battle with him. So, as happened all too frequently these days, he found himself doing what he knew he should do, rather than what he had really wanted to do. He ordered two ham sandwiches with dill pickle and two bottles of lemonade. Fuck him if he doesn't like pickles, he thought, trying gamely to console his sulking inner child.

Fifteen minutes later, they were walking deep in the woods of the park. Mustang had graciously accepted his sandwich and explained that since he was unbelievably paranoid and suspicious from a long life of manipulation and skullduggery, it consoled his obsessive little mind to have some conversations outside of Headquarters and somewhere that looked a bit more like a scene out of a spy movie. Well, that hadn't been quite what he'd said, but Ed understood that to be the gist of it. Although, to be honest, Hakuro and his guys seemed to be the kind of underhanded assholes that were worth being paranoid over.

After hearing out the basics of the Flowers case and consuming half a ham sandwich, Ed realised that so far they'd got through the conversation without a single real insult. He wasn't sure whether to be proud of his evident maturity or ashamed for dropping the ball, but before he could decide, Mustang said something that totally distracted him.

"So, Fullmetal, your first assignment on this case: I want you to read a book for me, and then give me a book report."

Okay, so now it was insult time. Right, he was totally on it. "Are you freaking kidding me? I told you, no pointless busy work, and by the way, asshole, I'm nearly nineteen, your jokes are way behind the times. Give me a real job to do or take me off the case."

Mustang raised an eyebrow and looked slightly smug, like he'd scored a hit. "Let me rephrase. I want you to read a banned, highly illegal alchemic text for me. Major Hawkeye found it in Flowers' apartment. Flowers wasn't an alchemist, and the text is a very esoteric one. There's no way she could have made head nor tail of the contents, which leaves us with the question of what on earth she was doing with it. That's where you come in."

Great, he'd been set up, and now he was too fascinated with the idea of this book to try for a good come-back. "So, you think the murder had something to do with this book?"

"It's certainly suspicious. At the moment, though, we have no idea what it might mean. But if we know why Flowers might have been killed, that might tell us where to look to find out."

"I thought the idea was that Hakuro's guys did it? Something to do with her political work for the Progressives?"

"That was our working theory. But it still leaves us with the question of exactly why. It might be that this whole matter turns out to be nothing to do with the military. In that case, we'll just turn it straight over to the police." He turned and was suddenly looking right at Ed, challenging, intense, his face hard. "However - you understand how crucial it is that we're sure if Hakuro's old guard were involved. If this business blows up, it could be very bad. It could mean civil war. And I won't have that happen. I will not."

Ed suddenly wasn't sure what to do with himself - he found himself absently picking crumbs off his sleeve while trying to avoid Mustang's gaze - but he got the message. No fuck ups. He nodded solidly. "Gotcha, Brigadier General. No talking about this one in the canteen. But hey, I'm telling Al, okay?"

"Discreetly. But of course. I'd be surprised if you didn't. Alphonse's insights would be welcome too, if he has any time to spare aside from his studies."

Huh, what did Mustang know about Al's studies? Ed made a mental note to needle Al about it later. "What's the name of the book?"

" _The Perfection of Matter_. Heard of it?"

Ed whistled. Of course he'd heard of it; he had once been tasked with researching one of alchemy's biggest taboos, had he not? "That's a rare one. Hasn't it been banned for a couple hundred years?" He thought for a moment. "It's not even on the catalogue for Central Library's restricted vault, and they've got most of the biggies."

"And how odd that you have a mental list of what's in the restricted vault, despite the fact that you're not entitled to know anything about its contents." There was no edge to Mustang's voice, though, just amusement.

"And what about you? Bet you've known what's in there since you were my rank. Since you were _my age_."

Mustang just tilted his head and smirked an acknowledgement. "This book might be banned, but we don't know why. It's so rare that unfortunately, I'm not aware of anyone who could tell you what it's about. And as I said, it's esoteric in the extreme. It's one of those older texts where making sense of its symbolism involves a lot of work and reflection, and about half a library's worth of reading. I want you to apply yourself to the task, starting this afternoon. And not at Central Library, either. You'll be working in my study. I should have most of the other works you'll want to refer to. Of course, Alphonse is welcome to try his hand too if he'd like."

"Okay..." Ed tried to wrap his head around the oddness of this request. "But why have I gotta look at it at your place? The public library thing I get, but what makes you think my apartment's any less secure than yours?" He warmed to his theme. "I've got my books locked up with a _decent_ alchemical lock, I bet you've just got one of those crappy wood-sealing arrays you could get into with two extra strokes on the circle. Or a fireaxe."

"This book is illegal. I don't want it removed from my library."

"But that makes no sense! You already took it from Catalina's place. If _you_ can cart it around town, I'm pretty sure that _I'm_ safe to do it."

"I did nothing of the kind. I had Major Hawkeye take the copy she found this morning straight to the university library so they could secure it in their restricted vaults. We've told them that she came across it at a house clearance."

"What?" Ed felt poleaxed. "How am I supposed to read it at yours, then?"

"You'll be reading my own copy."

Ed opened his mouth for a moment, but Mustang cut off his rant before he'd even decided what to put in it. "Yes, yes, Fullmetal. If there are no illegal books squirreled away in your own collection, then you can try to scold me."

Crap. The bastard had him there. There were more than a few illegal books in there, actually. Just last night, Al and he had been crowing over that copy of _On the Forms of the Caduceus_ that Al had bought from a weird old guy in a pub while Ed was in Yarvil. All right, so some books turned out to be banned with good reason, but others were just banned because hundreds of years ago they'd annoyed some religious wacko or insulted the Duke of Wherever. Yeah, so some of them discussed some rather sketchy ideas, but pretty often they also contained some mindblowing ones - and you never really knew which it was going to be until you looked for yourself.

Ed gave a wry grin and a shake of his head. "Alchemists suck, don't we?"

Mustang answered with a sidelong look and his own close-lipped smile. "I'm afraid we do."

Gah, they weren't having a moment here, were they? Ed moved swiftly on. "So, have you taken a look in this thing? Did you make anything out?"

"Only that much of it purports to be a translation of a Xerxean alchemic text. The original's lost, of course. As for the subject - are you familiar with the Xerxean term _takwin_?"

Ed felt his insides tense up. He wasn't sure if it was the mention of Xerxes or...the other thing. "Yeah. Making golems, right?"

Mustang gave him a look, one of those patented, narrow-eyed Mustang looks that let you know something intense was happening in his brain, but gave you absolutely no clue as to what it was. The irritation of it unclenched Ed's stomach, so he took another swig of his lemonade, and then a big bite of ham sandwich.

Mustang looked severely peeved at this. Yay. Then he said, a little sharply, "No one knows what _takwin_ really was. It involved the nurturing of life, that much we can guess, and they believed it was one of the highest goals of alchemy. It's one of those old mysteries that old alchemists with too much time on their hands like to speculate over. The Xerxeans could do so much with alchemy that we still haven't rediscovered." Mustang paused to squeeze the bridge of his nose and take a deep breath. "Life. My first teacher believed it was a lost form of medical alchemy. My second agreed with you, that the goal of _takwin_ was the creation of new forms of life. So yes, golems, perhaps. Golems, or chimerae, or maybe even homunculi."

Ed froze on the spot, with the last chunk of his sandwich sticking straight out of his mouth. He had a strong urge to spit it right out, but a man's dignity is important to him. So, he made a heroic effort and swallowed it down in one gulp. A moment later, he started coughing hard as the crust scraped his oesophagus on the way down.

Mustang gave him a brief, inevitable smirk, then slapped his back a couple of times, hard. Ed turned his head and managed to spit some crumbs onto Mustang's jacket. Score 1-1, he decided.

***

  


  
  
***

Apparently, they were headed to the brigadier general's apartment straight away, so Ed stopped at a telephone box to enlist Al. This did not take long.

"Hey, it's me. So I'm on the case, and Mustang wants me to go through this crazy illegal alchemic text that apparently Flowers had in her flat. Yeah, it's _The Perfection of Matter_. No, I don't know why she had it, that's the point! They handed in Flowers' book, so I've got to go over to Mustang's to look at his copy. Yeah, you heard me. Mustang's library. His private library. Which supposedly has a whole cupboard full of sketchy illegal alchemy texts." Outside the telephone box, Ed heard Mustang clear his throat loudly. "Also, hopefully, there'll be a lot of secret, embarrassing crap I can use against him for twenty-eight days of solid gold mockery before I wave goodbye. So, you want in? If you're not doing anything. Yeah, the bastard wants you to research for free." Ed glanced at Mustang's back through the glass. No reaction. Maybe he hadn't heard this part? "But, the books! Imagine the shit he's got stashed there. If we're lucky, including his teenage journal collection. 'Dear diary, why do girls laugh at my hair? Is it because they're jealous?' "

Al finally cut in while Ed was still laughing loudly at his own excellent joke. "Brother? You had me at the illegal texts part. As for the diary, I'm afraid you're on your own."

"Great! Can you meet us outside the Aerugan bakery on Jordan Boulevard? The one right by the metro entrance, in about twenty minutes?"

"Sure. I'll head there right now. Have fun."

And with that, Al hung up before Ed could ask him what the hell _fun_ was supposed to mean. He holstered the receiver and stepped out of the telephone box. Outside, Mustang was leaning against the glass panels, arms folded and eyes half-closed as if deep in thought.

He looked at Ed and said, "I hope you haven't planned anything too elaborate, Fullmetal. Because you _really_ wouldn't want to start an adolescent pranking war with me. I have experience."

***

Much as Al approved of Ed's reasons for wanting to help bring Flowers' killer to justice, if he was honest with himself, he didn't really have time for this. He had a tutorial the next morning to prepare for, and he'd been planning to run a couple of experiments that afternoon, but Mustang's library was too good to turn down. And there was _The Perfection of Matter_ , too: a book which he was secretly, intensely curious to examine. It was a relief to know that Ed was nearly as excited as he was. With alchemical taboo, they always relied upon each other to tell one another when to stop, to provide a check for those moments when the lure of knowledge threatened to deviate one's moral compass. They had granted each other permission for this.

Al had only been outside the bakery for five minutes, but he was still jiggling a leg impatiently by the time Ed and Mustang showed up. As the brigadier general turned a key in the front door of an elegant old apartment building in a side street, Al almost had to resist the urge to dash past him and run up the stairs. He looked over to Ed, who gave him a conspiratorial grin. It struck Al again that Ed was possibly even more curious about seeing inside Mustang's apartment than he was about the book itself. Well, if his brother was going to waste half the afternoon combing the rooms obsessively for blackmail and one-upmanship resources, so be it. Al wasn't going to let himself be distracted from the real goods here.

Mustang's apartment was on the third floor, up a large spiral of a staircase. The hallway inside was high-ceilinged and plain. Mustang led them straight through a door on the left and directly into what was apparently his study. It was a spacious room lined from floor to ceiling with glass-fronted bookcases, and lit by a tall window facing onto the building's courtyard. Ed marched right on in as if the room was his own, and started looking over the spines of books in the first case he came across. Al stood in the doorway and looked around the room with curiosity. There was a good-sized wooden desk in the centre, with a worn dark green chesterfield sofa in front of it. In a case off to one side, there was what looked like a decent collection of alchemic instrumentation. Maybe some of these had once belonged to someone else? Al couldn't imagine, given Mustang's speciality, that he got much use out of the beautiful old astrolabe at the front of the case. All in all, it wasn't the biggest private library Al had ever seen, but he was willing to bet it offered quality over quantity.

Mustang cleared his throat. Both brothers looked at him. They'd been lost already. He beckoned them over to the nearest bookcase to the door. He muttered, "I can't quite believe that I'm showing you this," then pulled a grease pencil from his pocket and quickly sketched an array on the plain, square metal panel at the centre of the bookcase doors. It was a smart little locking formula, better than most. Mustang let them see it for a moment, then tapped the array with two fingers to show them how the bookcase door split smoothly and swung quietly open. Then he closed it again, used a handkerchief to wipe some of the array, added the strokes for a reversion and tapped it again to seal the door. Then he wiped the metal panel clean and stepped back.

"I don't suppose either of you need to see that again?"

Ed ignored the implicit compliment, snorted, clapped and touched his hands to the panel. The bookcase fell open. He closed the doors, clapped again, and sealed it with a tap. Then he grinned like he'd just laid down a good hand of cards. Al sighed. Any day now his brother was going to learn to be gracious about things.

Mustang had the good sense not to take the bait. He moved on, pointing out the smoked-glass bookcase with double locks that held the banned texts, the shelf that held _The Perfection of Matter_ , and the location of the major reference books they'd need. They could find paper in the first desk drawer, pencils and sharpeners in the mug on the desk. The bathroom was the first door on the right, and the kitchen at the end of the hall. As Mustang spoke, Ed had already cracked the locks on the smoked-glass bookcase, pulled out _The Perfection of Matter_ and two other books that took his fancy, and moved straight on to hit the reference volumes.

"I don't expect you'll get through this today, but if you leave before I get back tonight, I'll want a progress report. Call my office from a phone box, but don't give me the report, just say you've got a wrong number, hang up and wait. We'll trace the call and I'll call you back from an outside line as soon as I can."

"Paranoid much?" said Ed from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, nose already stuck into the book in question.

Since, unlike Al, Ed wasn't looking, he didn't catch the brief flash of pained tension in Mustang's expression before he answered, quietly, "Much." Then he glanced at the doorway. "I'm going to put a pot of coffee on, then I'm heading back to the office. Any questions about the library?"

Ed looked up from his book pile, raised his hand and said brightly, "Yeah. How come all these books say "Hawkeye" in the front?"

Al mentally rolled his eyes, and pinched Ed's upper arm firmly. Ed pretended to ignore him, but struck his left heel down neatly on the toe of Al's shoe. So, escalation, was it?

Mustang said evenly, "Most of them belonged to my teacher." Then he was out the door before either of them could check out the expression on his face.

Ed had risen to his feet and stepped forward. While he was gawping after Mustang, Al took the opportunity to hook a foot round Ed's right ankle from in front, pull his foot forwards from under him, and shoulder him smoothly back to fall straight on his ass on the rug.

Ed glowered up at him from the floor like a sore loser. Al smiled at him sweetly and reached for a book.

***  


  


***

  
Hours later, they still hardly knew anything about _The Perfection of Matter_. It was a tough one, all right. The symbology and logic of Xerxean alchemy could be pretty odd to modern eyes, even to Al, who was studying a lot of it at the moment. Then there was the translation, evidently poor in parts and deliberately coded in others, and clearly made by someone who didn't entirely understand the original but wanted you to think they did. It was frustratingly slow work, but the journey itself towards the text was fascinating. Al could hardly bear to tear himself away from the reading, the sketches, and the debates, but finally he forced himself. He really had to put something together for his tutorial the next morning. His university tutor might not be quite as terrifying as Teacher, but he certainly didn't want to face her unprepared. He left Ed buried in a commentary on the role of religious practices in Xerxean experimentation, and strolled down to the street.

Outside, the sun was low, the light a rich yellow and the shadows long. It didn't even occur to Al to get home the way he'd gotten to Mustang's, via the metro. He just started out on the hour-long walk between Mustang's place and the flat he shared with Ed in the university quarter without a thought. He walked past shops shutting down for the day, restaurants opening up, cafes and bars filling up with the afterwork crowd of office workers and soldiers. The air smelled of good food. After a little while, he passed into the narrower streets of the old city, his favourite part of town. He wandered down the street that was full of nothing but violin and guitar workshops, sniffed the sawdust and caught glimpses through open studio doorways of craftsmen cutting, sanding and polishing. He cut down a shady, graffitied side-street where old ladies sat outside their doors on kitchen chairs. He smiled and nodded at them as he passed. Old ladies were pretty much the only people in the city who would say "hi" to a stranger the way you would do back home. He liked them for that.

After a few minutes, he was strolling down a long, wide lane, with the high, blank wall of the old garrison on one side, and a canal on the other. He was watching two mallards in the water squawking and flapping their wings in some weird courtship ritual - or maybe they were just fighting - when he heard voices up ahead of him. Two young men stepped out of a little sidestreet ahead of him, holding a map. They were obviously tourists, dressed for warmer weather than Central ever had at this time of year, and arguing in broad Western accents about which street they were on.

"I'm telling you, that isn't the West Canal, 'cause we woulda passed Mercer Street back there if it was."

"No, I think that little cross-street was Mercer. Anyway, this can't be where you think it is, because if it was the East Canal, we'd be near the garrison, and it ain't here."

Al grinned, sympathetic and amused. The first man looked around him, presumably for the garrison, and spotted Al. Al grinned and pointed at the high wall behind him. "That's the garrison. You're right, this is the East Canal."

The first man slapped his friend on the shoulder. "I told you, man!" Then, to Al, "Thank you, sir. Hey, would you mind helping us out here a little? You see, my friend and I are visitors here, and we're having a few problems trying to find our hotel."

His friend cut in, "You know, the streets back there are so tiny, and half the time they even don't have signs on 'em."

Al remembered how huge Central had seemed when he and Ed had first visited back when they were kids, for Ed's state alchemist examination. They'd had some amazing fights over maps back then - some of them literally fights. "Sure," he said, "I know what you mean. Central's an awesome city, but it's so difficult to find your way around if you don't know it. Where's your hotel?"

The second man said "We're staying at the Majestic. It's one of those big places on Aquaroya Boulevard. We just checked in this morning, only I forgot to pick up a card from the lobby with the whole address."

Al said "Don't worry about it. I know that hotel, I can show you how to get there if you let me have a look for a minute."

"Thank you very much, sir. Nice to meet someone friendly round here." Al laughed, and stepped forward. He knew what they meant.

The two men held up the map and made a space for him between them. Al moved into it, put a finger up to the map - and suddenly he was buzzing, on edge, flooded with nervous energy, his heart hammering at him. He took a step back before he knew why, and something smashed up through the map, caught him on the chin and snapped his head back.

Then he was sitting on the ground, his palms raw where he'd caught himself on the paving stones, his tongue throbbing where he'd bitten it. The men who stood over him looked completely different now, hard-faced and without a trace of confusion. They knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. He should have seen this coming.

The first man swung his hand back. Al could see that his fist was curled around something small and heavy. Next to him, the second man was reaching behind him into the back of his pants. Al felt another electric jolt of fear and tension go through him, but just as it was trying to fill his mind, he leaned back and used his hands to vault his body forward, legs first. He got his right foot between the second man's braced legs and twisted, flipping him on to the ground and sending him sprawling. As the second man dropped, the first man grabbed Al's hair by the roots and hauled him up for a punch. As the fist with the roll of coins in it snapped forward, Al yanked his head to the side, ripping his short hair out of the guy's grip. The punch caught his nose, but most of the impact was lost. Al flattened his hand and hit the guy's solar plexus with a chop. The first man doubled over and went down.

Al sprang backwards, a bit inelegantly, and tried to give himself a moment. Distracting pains were flooding his brain from all over: his bruising jaw, the strained muscles of his neck, the pulled roots of his hair, his busted nose, his tongue, his scraped palms. His whole body was throbbing in rapid time. It was an information overload, that horrible brain-freezing cacophony of sensation that had had him lying face-down in a darkened room so many times in his first months back in the flesh. The two men were moving again. The second one was hauling himself to his feet. Al took a long, slow, deep breath, and let it all pass through him and over him. As he exhaled slowly, the second man pulled a knife and stepped forward. Al clapped, and drew a long polearm up out of the ground.

The two men froze rigid. Al caught the polearm, spun it, and lunged at the second man, catching the wrist of his knife arm and jerking it wide with the impact. The knife flew out into the air and landed in the canal with a little splash, and at the same time, the second man howled and grabbed hard at the shaft of the polearm with his other hand. Instead of pulling back, Al kept his two-handed grip on the polearm and rushed forward, then used his momentum to pull the polearm back and down to strike the second man hard across the front of the knees. He stumbled, and Al saw the first man moving in from the corner of his eye. He planted the polearm and used it to vault back out of reach. Both men were looking at him now in utter indignant horror. The second man was on his knees, clutching the wrist Al had hit and looking shaky. He was out of the fight. The first man was crouched in a solid, well-practiced fighting stance. He was obviously trained. That was kind of odd for a street thief.

Al and the first man circled each other slowly. Al made a feint with the polearm, testing. The man dodged to the side with ease. Al feinted again to one side, and then quickly brought the blunt part of the staff down with a chop aimed at the man's shoulder - but the man turned his body, ready, and slid right past Al, apparently headed for something beyond him. Al instinctively spun round in the other direction to block his progress with the blade.

Oh no, his bag. His _notes_. The bag was lying a few feet away on the ground, between his polearm and the man he was fighting. Had he been going for the bag, or was it a bluff to distract Al in order to take him down?

Al made a quick decision, sprang sideways, lunged for the bag and caught the strap on the blade of his polearm. He hoisted it in the air, let the bag's strap fall down the length of the shaft to land safely on his shoulders, and turned to defend himself again...and the two men were both off and running, back into the side street they'd come from. Damn. Al sprinted after them, and saw them disappear down a corner into a little lane. He followed after, but found them already gone. Al stood in the lane and listened for a moment. He heard trickling water, conversation drifting from a window, the distant crackle of radio music - but no footsteps. He picked the most likely looking turn and ran round the corner. The new street was just as deserted, apart from a single, tiny old lady who sat by her door on a chair, rolling noodles on a wooden tray.

"Hello," said Al, a little embarrassed. The old lady looked him over. He tried to imagine what she saw of him: a gangly, sweat-soaked young man, covered in dust with a bloody nose and a six foot, blade-topped pole in his hand. She did not say hello.


	3. Too Much Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everybody pokes their noses into things they shouldn't, but especially Ed.

The next time Ed looked up after his brother had left, the sky outside was dark. He yawned widely and stretched against the back of his chair, feeling a few joints pop. The Xerxeans were crazy. Well, he guessed he'd known that already. Never having gotten the chance to ask, he wasn't quite sure how his father had ended up as a human Philosopher's Stone anyway, or how the Xerxean alchemists had created that thing with his face - but he did suspect that the two events had been connected. The one thing he did know was that whatever had happened, it had destroyed the whole of Xerxes in a single day. All of that left him with little patience for the endless mystical babble that he was currently wading through.

The trouble was, Xerxean culture made no distinctions between science, art and religion. In theory, that was interesting, but in practice, it meant that what had been preserved of their alchemical science was clogged up with theology and superstition. Xerxeans had seemed to treat complex combinations of formula prayers and religious rituals as just as essential a part of any transmutation as circle and formula. It was weird to think that he was related to these people. The rituals apparently stemmed from a terror offending their many weird-looking animal-headed gods, all of whom apparently had the power to drop a plague on Xerxes in an instant if a single alchemist drew an array without the requisite "pleases" and "thank yous". Yet in the end, no angry god had been needed to blight Xerxes, and the plague that had destroyed his father's people was alchemy itself. Much as Ed was a devout atheist, much as he would rather cheer for science and boo and hiss at religion, he knew which was the real bad guy in this situation. The Xerxeans' terror of their gods had done them no harm in the end; they should have been far more afraid of their own science.

Despite that knowledge, hypocrite that he was, he was sitting with a pile of taboo alchemy books that reached above his head, avid to fathom _The Perfection of Matter_ , crazy to know what the lost science of takwin was. Despite the fact that he strongly suspected it was going to turn out to be something no one should ever know about. Despite the fact that at least one ordinary, nice person had already been killed over this secret. As if that all of that wasn't enough Ed had also, once again, dragged his little brother along for the ride. It seemed Ed wasn't so good at taking on board important life lessons. He'd looked into the face of the Gate, what was it, four times now? He'd seen it take his leg, his arm, his little brother. He'd heard it laugh at him with his own voice every time he'd returned.

He'd seen it tear his father to pieces while the old man smiled.

Ed closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath in, and let it out. He told himself firmly that he had a good reason for investigating this book. If Katie Flowers had been killed because of _The Perfection of Matter_ , that meant that someone thought its secrets worth killing for, and that sooner or later, others would probably die for it too. Ed also reminded himself that he was working for Mustang, who for all his many annoying personality traits, could be trusted, and who knew personally exactly how dangerous the desire for knowledge could be. All Ed could do was apply checks and balances to his own obsessions: he would always be an alchemist through and through, and so would Al, really, though Al had always had been better than him at knowing when to stop. He rubbed absently at a painful knot at the top of his right shoulder blade, just where it took the weight of his automail port. He needed a break from this.

He got up, stretched, opened the window to let in a little chilly night air, and thought, _hey, I didn't look for stuff to embarrass Mustang with yet!_ He'd been so absorbed in the reading that he'd all but forgotten his plan, but now that he needed to give his brain a brief rest from taboo alchemy, this was the perfect time for it. Teenage journals, old photos that totally didn't show his best side, girly romance novels, maybe even his porn stash, the possibilities were endless. This was going to be awesome.

Thanks to the years of training he'd had on his quest, Ed was a very fast researcher. In just twenty minutes, he'd not only skimmed the spine of every title in the study and flipped through the few promising volumes, he'd also checked for hidden drawers and looked over the kitchen and bathroom. Along the way he'd discovered a few mildly interesting facts about Mustang, like the fact that he collected old newspaper cartoons, but unfortunately, his haul of blackmail material had been somewhat disappointing. The study had shown that, as he'd guessed, most of the alchemy books were _ex libris_ Hawkeye, whoever that was (the Major's mom? dad? cousin? it wasn't exactly a common name).

When he'd moved on to the living room, he'd been expecting great things: the bachelor pad of doom and so on. What a disappointment it had been. He'd been hoping for coloured lamps and a sheepskin rug, but no. It was just another pleasant, high-ceilinged room with tall windows. There was a mantlepiece with a square clock in the centre, a streamlined, modern-looking leather armchair and sofa, and a low, cuboid rotating bookcase holding a few more novels and chess books. There were no pictures on the wall, embarrassing or otherwise. It was boring...kind of cool, but boring.

The room had the distinct air of not being lived in, though honestly, the whole flat did. Save for the utility bills on the bookcase and the study itself, there really wasn't anything to indicate that this was even the brigadier general's place. The most promising thing about the room was an album and a box of photos that he found on one side of the little bookcase.

Ed picked up the box and opened it. There were photographs crammed into the box in haphazard piles. Ed flipped through them quickly without disturbing the order - he could totally be a cat burglar if he wanted. There were a few pictures of the team, but most of the photos were pretty old and showed people Ed didn't know. There were a lot of girls in them. The names on the back - Iris, Edie, Lily, Emily - weren't particularly helpful. In the whole box, there were only two really good ones. One of these was an unlabelled photo of a teenage girl with a puffy, old-fashioned hairdo, hugging a solemn, spooky little dark-haired kid who could only be Roy Mustang, aged five. _Ha_. But who was the girl? A sister? A friend? She was way too young to be his mom, and besides, she didn't look a thing like Mustang. Ed suddently realised he knew absolutely nothing about the brigadier general's family, and that he was vaguely curious. The other photograph worth noting showed Mustang as a slim, slightly gawky teenager, standing in a garden with a pretty girl in a polo neck sweater. Ed couldn't place her at first, but on second glace, it was absolutely, definitely Major Hawkeye. It was weird to see what she'd been like as a young girl, all little and cute and _Winry-like_. Ed put the lid back on the box, and guiltlessly cracked open the photo album.

He was only three pages in before he realised what he was looking at. Mustang was not the kind of person who spent an evening putting his photos in albums, he was the kind of person who shoved them all in a shoebox. This album had been a gift, and it was obvious who it was from.

Ed flipped through the pages slowly, feeling affectionate, sad, and increasingly like an asshole. Hughes hadn't put the photos in date order, but had instead jumbled them about randomly. It seemed like, more than anything, he'd selected the photos and the order to get a rise out of Mustang. There were some of the two of them in uniform, or of the old East HQ team in the office, or everyone kicking back in some bar. There was a good one of Rebecca and Hawkeye looking scary together with big guns and little smirks. Some of the photos were pretty old. Apparently Mustang and Hughes had been at military academy together, and apparently there they had spent most of the time drunk or goofing off.

It was odd to see what they'd looked like at his own age - apparently, like total dorks. Hughes was kind of the same, but he'd looked even goofier without the little beard. Mustang had changed a lot more. He'd had shorter hair in those days for a start - you could actually see his eyes in these pictures. Moreover, in most of the photos, he wasn't pulling any of those Mustang-y I'm-smarter-than-you faces. He looked oddly open and cheerful, but then maybe that was because it was Hughes taking the pictures. There was a really funny shot of Mustang holding Elicia as a tiny baby, looking as nervous as if he was holding a ticking bomb. There was an assload more with Elicia in them, of course. She looked about three in this one - _oh shit_. Hughes must have taken this picture, must have made the album itself, only a short time before he had died. Ed squeezed his eyes shut, now feeling like a total jackass of the highest order. He carefully replaced the album, and decided that he was not, in fact, going to be using any of the photographs he'd found for mockery material. Chastened, he got himself a glass of water from the kitchen, and returned to his research in the study.

After another annoying but relatively productive hour of sifting science from ritual and evidence from mysticism, Ed found his mind wandering again, this time to the familiar waters of self-reproach. Hughes' photo album ... as if he hadn't been enough of a thoughtless dick recently with the way he'd been with Winry when they broke up. She'd deserved a hell of a lot better. Even worse than the fact that they hadn't made it as a couple, he'd been enough of an unforgiveable ass that he might have permanently damaged their friendship. He didn't need to ruin another - not that he and Mustang were even friends, but still. That album was like the inscription he still kept inside his pocket watch, something painfully personal and out of bounds, and he'd pried into it like a jerk.

He decided it'd be okay to take another quick break, though this time he would try to behave himself. He opened the bookcase where he'd seen the books on fire alchemy and the transmutation of gases, and idly took out a volume. He flipped through the pages rapidly. Huh. Picking up another, he found the same thing. Ed had never really looked into fire alchemy, but the approaches these books took were convoluted and inefficient, involving massive expenditure of energy. Oddly, Mustang's technique couldn't be further from these: just splitting water particles in the air, oxygen from hydrogen, a basic transmutation with so little energy required you could do it all day with little risk of a rebound. It was either elegantly simple or idiotically basic, Ed could never decide which. Either way, it was funny that these guys had never come up with it, given how straightforward it was. In fact, Ed bet that while this technique had likely earned Mustang his silver pocket watch, that he himself could do it right now without blinking ... minus the spark, of course. He was in a library full of flammable papery things, after all, he wasn't stupid.

Ed tapped his fingers together, and recalled the formula. Oxygen flooded the air around him in a vague, intoxicating cloud. Whoa, head rush. Maybe he shouldn't have done that ... Ed opened a window, then stumbled to the sofa and lay there for a while until he felt a little less high.

So, the array itself was simple, but controlling it must be the sort of thing that took some practice. The formula always had the look of a shorthand array to him, now he thought about it. Like nearly any personal array that an alchemist displayed publically, there must be more to it than meets the eye, parts of the formula that didn't always need to be drawn out, just held in the mind. Dumb of Ed to have tried to use the shorthand on its own, without _comprehending_ it, but then the array had just seemed so basic: elementary school stuff. If you didn't mind class 4A blowing up the homeroom or passing out in a little pile.

He got up slowly and sat back at the desk, sketching the fire array with a pencil, with a quarter of the outer circle left off for safety. _The second, inner circle_ , he thought, _that's for refinement and control_. He'd bet that the plain, unadorned inner circle was shorthand for something much more complex and specific in the original formula. But what? How did you direct a gas, goddammit? Gases were essentially volatile, they moved in whatever direction they liked, they couldn't be contained, they spread and were difficult to repel... Eh, what a pain in the ass. Who'd ever specialise by choice in the transmutation of gases? But Mustang used that stupid, simple little chemical change so precisely. The fire always seemed to go exactly where he wanted it, to die the moment he asked it to, and he made it look so maddeningly easy. He couldn't, couldn't be doing it on willpower alone. That would be nuts.

Half an hour later, Ed was hard at work again...just not on Xerxean alchemy. After a crazed hunt through the study for Mustang's notebooks - which of course he hadn't found, even after another thorough check for hollow panels and secret desk drawers - Ed ended up sitting back at the desk with a pile of books on fire alchemy. Right now he was sketching his eleventh educated guess on how the array's inner circle worked. He wasn't actually testing these physically - lesson learnt - just running the logic of them through his head to see if it was true. His previous instincts about the books were right: Mustang apart, alchemic science was about as successful at controlling fire as medical science was at controlling tuberculosis, which was to say, not at all. All the books he'd looked through so far could pretty much be summarised the same way. "I tried this thing and it didn't quite work and now I have no eyebrows, but I'm writing it up anyway and trying to bullshit that we've all learnt something useful so that my department can score funding for some better couches".

Anyway, Mustang hadn't learnt much from these guys, because there wasn't much to learn. Perhaps his teacher's research had only been circulated privately, or - _no way, he couldn't have_ \- Mustang had even come up with the whole damn thing on his own. Ed started thinking through guess number eleven. The inner circle could provide a kind of reversal, a second transmutation to contain the first by combining oxygen atoms around the fire with the extra hydrogen created by the array, but then if that was the case, wouldn't ...

"Close, but no cigar." Mustang's voice sounded from right by his ear. Ed's whole body jerked. The lead of his pencil punched a neat hole through the paper, then snapped.

When the hell had he come in? Ed turned around. Mustang was leaning right over his left shoulder. He looked at Ed through his bangs, and grinned with one side of his mouth. Their faces were inches apart, and that was way too close. Gah. Ed ducked his head to one side.

Mustang ignored him, reaching an arm over Ed's shoulder to pick up another pencil from the desk. He added a couple of strokes to the inner circle, then stepped back and leant against the desk, looking down at him. Mustang's jacket was off. He looked surprisingly smaller and slighter without it, his sleeves rolled up, wiry arms folded. How long had he been in the apartment anyway?

Mustang said, "There's a trick to it of course, but actually, the inner circle's largely concerned with refining the accuracy of the initial transmutation of gases. It doesn't control or contain anything in and of itself." With a smug pause, he let Ed take that one in. So whatever was in the inner circle, it didn't protect the user or contain the transmutation. It just made it possible for a skilled user to aim the weapon precisely. A very skilled user. Huh. It really was all about control.

Irritated, but too impressed to come up with an insult, Ed settled for holding his own intellectually. He glanced at the changes Mustang had made to his sketch. "So it's all about the speed, then? Drawing a line in the air and getting the reaction done before the gas disperses?"

"Yes, in part, but -" Mustang seemed to stop himself. "I'm not going to teach you how to do this, Edward."

"I wasn't trying to learn! I was just, you know, curious. Intellectually. And you have all these books on fire alchemy, which are all, by the way, total crap ..."

"You're right. No one before my teacher ever had any success worth glancing at. My teacher never wrote a book, of course."

Ed picked up the hint. Hawkeye Senior had to be dead. But that meant ... "Hey. Seriously, did you ever think about taking on an apprentice? Not me! I just mean, if someone takes you out, and you've hidden your notes away somewhere, all that knowledge would just" - he waved his hands - "go to waste."

Mustang looked at him through his fringe, with one of those intense, impenetrable looks. This particular time, though, Ed could kind of guess what was going on in his head. He started to regret his previous comment.

Mustang said evenly, "I think one Flame Alchemist is enough for the world. Don't you?"

There was a heavy silence.

Ed said, slowly, "You know, the other students at the university keep asking Al how to transmute without a circle. He just says to them, 'You think you wanna know, but trust me, actually you don't.' But they never stop asking."

Mustang responded with a faint smile.

"This book. I know your old teacher thought it was about medical alchemy, and Al thinks so too, but personally, I've got a feeling it's going to turn out to be something pretty fucking wrong. But - I still need to see it for myself, I still feel like I can't stop before I work out the puzzle, get all the secrets out." He sighed, puffed a breath up to ruffle his bangs, and smiled wryly. "It's like I was saying in the park. Alchemists suck. There's just something wrong with our brains or something."

Mustang was looking at him differently now, eye to eye, open, empathetic even. He got it. It was a total _relief_ how much he got it. God, now they really were having a moment, but Ed would feel like a jerk if he made a stupid joke this time, especially after the way he'd snooped in the living room earlier. And honestly, it had made him feel better, cleaner somehow, to confess to another alchemist how disturbed he was by his compulsion to fathom _The Perfection of Matter_.

They looked at each other for another long moment. Then Mustang casually picked up a piece of paper from the desk and held it in front of Ed's face. On it were Ed's workings for the little sonic array he'd cooked up earlier to check the study for hidden drawers and panels.

"By the way, Fullmetal," he said, conversationally. "Do you really think I didn't anticipate that you'd search for my notebooks?"

***  
  
***

  
Roy had left the brothers a spare key, so he was somewhat surprised to see them both in his office at 0930 the next morning. He was even more surprised to see that Alphonse was sporting two blacked eyes, a swollen nose and an impressive bruise under his chin. At first, he imagined some unwise person must have started a bar fight with Alphonse. He looked at Al's lanky frame and his bright-eyed, likeable face, and thought, _I wouldn't like to see the other guy_.

Al greeted him cheerily, "Morning, Brigadier General." Fullmetal just waved offhandedly.

Then, both brothers started speaking at once. The volume rose as they both tried to talk over the other, before Alphonse gave Edward a harsh look, and Ed sighed and shut up.

Al started up again. "I got attacked last night on my way home from your place. Mugged, or something. I'm not quite sure what it was, actually, so we thought we should tell you."

Mustang nodded for him to go on.

"Two guys by the canal ... they tried to set me up for it with a con like they were robbers, but when they fought - they really knew what they were doing. One of them fought me barehanded when I had a polearm, and he was handling it fine."

Edward cut in. "And they got away. But it wasn't Al's fault, he thought they were going for the bag with his alchemy notes in it."

"Brother! I was getting to that part." Al turned back to Roy. "But - I thought about it after, and I don't actually think they were trying to rob me. Which is weird. They were two trained guys, just beating up on me. I don't even think they were trying to kill me."

Had it been Edward who'd been in the fight, the only motive the men would have needed would be meeting him at the wrong moment. Alphonse, on the other hand, didn't attract trouble. This business looked deliberate. Roy said, "Could you have been followed? Did either of you see anyone?"

Ed and Al both responded with a fervent "no". Al had thought he was alone for much of his walk home; Ed, heading out much later, had just hailed a cab off the street. In the twisting streets of the old city, however, it would have been easy for a skilled pursuer to follow even someone as observant and well-trained as Alphonse. Especially if he had been thinking about alchemy at the time. Both brothers tended to get absorbed in their work, to say the least.

"But what I don't get is how beating me up would harm the investigation. Okay, so I'm working on this, but it's just for a day or two." Al paused, and frowned a bit. "What I mean is, why target me? I'm not even on the team. Why not Ed, or you, or Hawkeye?"

"I can think of a very obvious reason why. Fullmetal has less than a month to go on his contract. If you'd been put in the hospital, he might abandon his work on this case and take you with him."

Edward said loudly, "If you think I'd be scared off by some asshole threatening Al - he can totally handle himself-" and halfway through the sentence Al started talking over him, saying "You know, I wouldn't stop working on it just because some jerk tried to push me around-"

For the sake of the collective eardrums of the office, Roy stopped them by holding up a hand. Or at least, this stopped Alphonse, and he in turn stopped Edward with an elbow-jab to the side.

Roy said, "This is a delicate business. Were someone to attack me - or Major Hawkeye - it would be ... unsettling. For the military. It might backfire on the person ordering the assault. Taking Fullmetal off the case would be relatively collateral-free, especially since he's due to retire. And they targeted you, Alphonse. And as you say, it looks like they intended to injure you, not kill you, and the set-up would make it easy to pass off as a mugging. Which fits the m.o. of the Flowers killing, which was meant to look like a burglary."

"But they'd have to be pretty sneaky. I mean, they'd need to find out that Al and I were working on the case at your apartment, and maybe know that my contract was coming up. And they'd have to be watching the apartment entrance to follow Al when he left."

Roy pinched the bridge of his nose. He agreed - and he didn't like where this was going. He said, "I know. I think we're all being closely watched. Someone showed up at Flowers' apartment asking about the book. He claimed to be a party colleague of Ms. Flowers and had some doubtful story about lending her the book. We haven't managed to track him down so far." Roy was hoping that the man in question would turn up at Flowers' funeral. Catalina was under orders to collar him if so, but he strongly suspected that the man wasn't a grieving party colleague at all.

"In any case, I think we can assume we're on the right track here. Your assignment is probably going to give us the key to this thing - we need to know what's in that book." He looked them both over. With their folded arms and stubborn frowns, he found them suddenly very alike. "Listen: I've instructed all of my team to be cautious about their personal safety. That extends to you two as well. Keep your wits about you. Alphonse, of course you're not under orders. If you want to bow out of the investigation, I'm fine with that."

Al cut in quickly. "No, I want to! I'd really like to keep going at it, if that's okay. All the stuff on Xerxean alchemy we've looked up is actually really helping with my research. Oh - and would it be okay if I used your astrolabe when I'm over later today? I don't have one, and I need to look up a bunch of astronomy stuff for some of the reading Professor Mackintosh has set me." He paused his rush of words to take a breath. "And besides, I really don't like being threatened." There was suddenly a subtle edge to his voice, to his manner. Roy thought, _good for you_. He found himself remembering why he had so much time for Alphonse.

The Elrics departed: Alphonse heading to the university, and Edward back to Roy's library. The book's investigation couldn't be in better hands. Now to find out how Flowers had gotten her hands on it in the first place.

***

  
The weather that afternoon was cloudy but breezy as Roy walked past the newly-planted flower beds and half built fountains of University Park - soon to be Armstrong Park, he corrected himself triumphantly. He wondered idly where the inevitable intimidating statue of General Armstrong would be, and decided that the central junction at the top of the hill would be suitably pompous and impressive. He hoped they had her waving that sword around.

He was glad that his team's next line of enquiry gave him an excuse to get out of the office and a chance to check up on another matter upon which he wanted to keep tabs. This quick trip out was also a treat to himself before he'd have to spend the rest of today's waking hours preparing himself and his team for tomorrow's all-day meeting with the brass. In the absence of a standing Fuhrer, Amestris was being governed by committee, so these lengthy meetings were a tedious regularity.

It was going to be a real bastard of a meeting. Someone from Hakuro's faction, if not the man himself, was still likely to be behind the Flowers killing. If Hakuro was involved, he'd be watching Roy. Even if not, he and his little minions would probably pick up on the fact that Roy was scoping him out. Either way, he and Hakuro were very likely going to be spending the meeting circling each other warily, each attempting to divine the other's intention without starting a fight, while nearly everyone else in the room did their best to defuse the tension by spraying it with as much concealing bullshit as possible. Ah, well. Onwards and upwards.

Once outside the park gates, he crossed the road and passed through the matching gates of the university campus opposite it, giving the porter a little nod as he went through. He hardly ever came here these days, but he still remembered the route well: along the central path, past the tall, square, many-columned buildings in pale stone on either side of him and open grass quadrangles, with the river on one side and the road on the other. He turned left, walked through a stone archway, and found the side entrance of the Department of Elemental Alchemy. Back when he'd been a cadet, and studying for his State Alchemist's certification, the academy had sent him here for weekly tutorials to prepare him for the examination. At first, he hadn't been able to imagine having any teacher other than Master Hawkeye, but Professor Mackintosh had quickly proved to be very much her own woman. It had hardly hurt that she was, in her own competent way, as impressively loopy as Hawkeye himself.

Up on the third floor, Professor Mackintosh still kept the same office she'd had over a decade ago. He knocked, saw a hand wave at him through the frosted glass of the door, and heard her call "Come on in."

Inside the office, Mackintosh was sat at her desk with the chair swung around to face the room's sofa. Neither her office nor she had changed much in the last few years. There were the same bizarre stuffed animals and trophies mounted on walls and shelves, including Roy's favourite, the diorama of squirrels playing cards. There were the wildly inaccurate nineteenth-century diagrams of molecules, with which she liked to torment undergraduates by asking them to point out the mistakes, and then there was Mackintosh herself. She was a stocky woman in her sixties, with a packet of chalk and another of cigarettes stuffed into her worn cardigan - she'd been known to get them mixed up - and an oddly precise pudding-bowl haircut, which Roy had always suspected to be self-administered. On the sofa, a young man of around twenty was sitting, holding a few sheets of closely-written paper. He was sweating slightly.

"Hello, Roy!" Mackintosh said. "I'll just be a few minutes, I'm running a little late with my tutorials. Sit outside and take a look at that article on my pinboard." The undergraduate stared openly at Roy. Roy raised his eyebrows a little, aiming for a combination of sharpness (to remind him that they weren't in the same boat) and fellow-feeling (because in some respects they were). He wasn't sure whether the young man's surprise was due to seeing a high-ranking military officer suddenly walk into his tutor's study, to the fact that she called him by his first name, or possibly due to the fact that she was casually and freely ordering him around. Roy didn't take orders from many people these days, but teachers were a weak point with him. He nodded to Mackintosh, and wandered out, leaving the wretched undergraduate to his fate.

In the corridor, he looked over the article she'd pointed out. It was a newspaper clipping from the Herald on the Department's research into the alchemical detection of carbon monoxide leaks. She'd circled all the factual errors in red. Roy wondered if she'd sent the Herald a copy. Chuckling under his breath, he figured she probably had. From within the room, he heard Mackintosh's voice booming "... is a complete and proven fallacy, as you'd know if you'd actually read any of the books in your essay's bibliography." He repressed a pang of sympathetic pain.

Mackintosh continued, quite caustically, "You haven't done a stroke of work this week, have you? You just knocked this together last night and thought you'd wander along ..." Roy moved along the corridor a little and looked over another noticeboard. This one held advertisements from students selling old textbooks, and posters for various student societies. He was pleased to note that at least four of the latter came from student-run political groups of the kind whose members would have found themselves expelled and quite possibly jailed back in the Bradley years.

The door to Mackintosh's office banged open. The hapless undergraduate walked out very quickly with his head down. Roy wandered in.

Mackintosh greeted him with a nod, and Roy took a seat on the sofa. After a couple of minutes' small talk about department life, Roy got down to business - or at least the first part of it. "So," he said, "how is Alphonse coming along?"

Mackintosh snorted a laugh. "I saw him this morning. He had a nice pair of black eyes. Wouldn't tell me how he got them. Went drinking and got into a fight with some town lads, I expect. I don't know which time of year makes 'em worse, autumn or examination time."

Roy didn't correct her. "What about his studies? How far do you think he has to go before he's ready?"

"Oh, he's ready. Whenever he wants, really, he's just too much of a perfectionist."

"From what I've seen of his work, he can be a little meticulous." Or maybe he was deliberately stalling, he thought. Roy hoped he'd get a chance over the next few days to bring this up with Alphonse when they were alone.

Mackintosh added, "He's a very bright young man indeed. A little on the odd side, though. Keeps stroking the cushions in tutorials. You'd think the boy had never felt cotton before. Bizarre habit, not sure he even knows he's doing it. Bit of a story there, is there?"

How to broach this? Most of Roy's Elric-based excuses were aimed at people with less of a talent for seeing through people. He decided to go for a severely edited version of the truth. "He wasn't well for a few years. He's made a very good recovery, though. He's extremely determined. I've no doubt he's going to succeed at whatever he turns his hand to."

Mackintosh answered with a disapproving "hmm". Roy remembered that noise unpleasantly well from his time studying under her. He wasn't quite sure which part of his answer she was taking aim at, but decided on a swift change of subject in any case.

"I can't stop for long, but there was one other thing I wouldn't mind your advice on. I'm looking out for a particular rare book, and I wondered whether you'd know if there are any copies circulating at the moment." This was the main reason behind his visit. Mackintosh was a voracious collector of rare texts, with a particular appetite for the dubious and the banned, and seemed to be on friendly terms with every book dealer in the country, both reputable and disreputable. If he was going to successfully pick her brains about her highly illegal hobby, he was going to have to do it her on her own turf.

"I've been doing the rounds rather a lot lately, so I'd probably know. What is it?"

" _The Perfection of Matter_."

Professor Mackintosh raised an eyebrow. Roy gave her his best unreadable stare. It was a battle of wills.

She leant back. "And why, exactly, has that piqued your interest? I can't help but notice that this book has absolutely nothing to do with your field."

"How would you know - have you seen a copy?" Roy was past thirty and near the top of his country's military; he could try a little backchat. "You're aware that there's no decent interpretation extant, so technically, it could be about anything?"

" _Takwin_ , isn't it? Whichever way you slice it, that's biological alchemy. Your only alchemic experience with biology is grilling it."

Roy pulled a face. So much for backchat. In some ways, he'd rather be stuck in a meeting with Hakuro.

Mackintosh barrelled on. "I'm presuming you wouldn't be so thick-headed as to think this would be suitable reading for Alphonse?"

"Absolutely not." Alphonse, who was so far beyond needing to be kept innocent of the dangers of taboo alchemy, was probably in Roy's study at that exact moment with his nose buried deep in the unsuitable book in question. "This is a favour for a State Alchemist colleague in biological alchemy, on plant enzymes. Normally he keeps his nose clean with this sort of thing, but he's following up a reference which he thinks might hold the key to his latest book. It's rather interesting -"

"All right." Mackintosh stopped him with one hand. She appeared to be buying the story. He congratulated himself on a well-played move. Like many alchemists who specialised, Mackintosh had not the remotest interest in research in the other alchemical disciplines: he'd killed her curiosity with one blow.

She tapped her front teeth with a pencil. "I think Meeks had a copy the last time I saw him, a couple of months ago. Shall I give him a call for you?"

"No, that's all right. I can look up him up myself and see if he's still got it."

Mackintosh sniffed. "I expect you'll be out of luck, it's a rare one. A good few people will be after that."

"I'll see. Perhaps if it's that rare, my colleague could prevail on the person who bought it to let him take a look? Anyway, I'll give Meeks a call. Thanks." Meeks had sold Master Hawkeye a great deal of the library that was now Roy's own, including most of the illegal books in the smoked-glass case. Roy, however, had never gotten along with Meeks. Luckily, he knew someone who did.

Mackintosh looked him over as he got up from the sofa and straightened up his uniform. "Roy?" He waited in resignation for her parting shot. "Next time you drop by, if you could not carry a loaded gun around a building where about a hundred people are transmuting gas? Besides the fact that it's embarrassing for us all to see a renowned State Alchemist forgetting basic safety procedures, it tends to make people nervous."

***

  
Riza sat back in the wooden booth and sipped at her soda. Hayate lay quietly at her feet. Mr. Meeks was, of course, late. She had a 50 cenz bet with Roy that he was also going to turn up drunk. She looked around her. She had never been to this restaurant before, but she was getting the impression Meeks was a regular, if only because it was one of those little bistros which had nothing but regulars. Riza was at a quiet booth near the back. Over at the bar, two middle-aged men with glasses of beer were openly staring at what they could see of Riza. She was guessing the privacy of the high booths was one of the reasons Meeks came here on business. On the other side of the narrow room, a noisy group of workmen were eating the house special and drinking rough red wine out of little tumblers. A little cloud of smoke hung over their heads. In fact, the air of the restaurant was so thick with smoke it was almost visible. It was surprising that Meeks, one of the best men in his business, brought his rare books in here. Her father would have had a fit if he'd known. He had always made a habit of carefully closing every one of his glass-fronted bookcases before he lit his evening pipe.

The little bell on the front door rang as it opened. Riza raised herself from her seat, enough to spot Mr Meeks making his way across the room and to catch his eye. He beamed at her and bustled over. He looked the same he'd always done, if rather fatter: bald, red-faced, cheerful and noisy, pushing his way past waiters and diners with friendly excuses. He was walking fairly steadily, though. Was she going to have to hand Roy the 50 cenz? He'd claimed she'd exaggerated Meeks' drunkenness when she was younger, on account of her being a tiny, bossy minature adult instead of a normal child. She'd retorted that being brought up in a hostess bar had evidently given him an abnormally high tolerance for lecherous drunkards. She'd won that round at least, even if she wasn't going to win the pot.

Mr. Meeks reached her booth, and she rose to greet him. He gave her a big smile and said "Hello, sweetheart. Aren't you looking grown-up?" She ought to, she was nearly thirty, but she bit her tongue; despite her comment about lechers, Meeks had always treated her like an affectionate uncle. It couldn't have hurt that the amount of money he'd relieved her father of over the years had probably paid for half his house. Meeks leaned across the table and kissed her on the cheek. His breath smelled powerfully of strong liquor. Roy was going to have to fork over the money after all. Perhaps she'd use it to treat Rebecca to lunch at the _Hussar_?

A waiter trotted over as soon as Mr Meeks sat himself down. It had taken Riza ten minutes to catch someone to bring her a soda, and another fifteen for the drink to arrive. Ordinarily she was excellent at dealing with waiters, but Meeks was a regular here, and it was evidently that sort of place.

"Let me get you a drink, dear." Mr Meeks turned to the waiter without waiting for her response and ordered a pint of stout for him and a glass of sweet sherry for her. In reality, Riza didn't feel like drinking at all - it was a Tuesday night with a six-hour meeting ahead of her the next day - and if she did, she'd want her sherry bone-dry and straight out of the icebox ... but she played along.

"So, what brings you here? Haven't decided to take up alchemy, have you?" Mr. Meeks laughed heartily at his own joke.

Riza smiled sweetly, with some effort. "No. I'm actually doing a favour for a State Alchemist friend of mine. He doesn't normally dabble with rare texts, but he's hoping to track down one in particular for a project on plant enzymes."

"Hoping to impress him, eh, are you? Well, I'd be delighted to help." Actually, the cover story was that helping the fictional plant alchemist out would further Riza's own career, but she should have thought of this instead. "What's the volume?"

" _The Perfection of Matter_?"

Mr Meeks whistled. "Plant enzymes, was it? Are you sure this fellow isn't spinning you a bit of a yarn about what he wants the book for? It's not something you'd want to go waving round army headquarters, if you know what I'm saying."

"Oh no, he's very trustworthy."

Mr. Meeks' eyes narrowed. "Not thingy, the apprentice, is it?" Riza shook her head vigorously. "No, he went for your father's field, didn't he?" Riza nodded, mumbling an affirmation.

"Good," said Meeks approvingly. "Never trusted the fellow. Shifty little eyes. Sly. You're a charming young lady, you could do far better for yourself." She was definitely going to be repeating that description to Roy when she reported back.

He took a long gulp of his beer. "I'm afraid I don't have a copy at the moment. It's rather scarce - rather expensive too, I'm afraid. Funnily enough, though, I've sold a couple of copies recently."

Riza felt a little jolt of adrenaline. More than one?

"Sold the last one to another young lady hoping to impress a boyfriend a couple of weeks back." That had to be Flowers. "Don't know what makes the alchemists so popular with you girls. Suppose it's the intoxicating allure of power, eh?" His laugh boomed across the room. Riza repressed a snort.

"What about the other one?" She kept her voice casual.

"Oh, that was months ago."

Riza sighed, trying to sound disappointed. "That's a shame. My friend really does want this book." She frowned. "I wonder - this is quite cheeky, but perhaps - alchemists like to help each other out, don't they? Perhaps if my friend asked someone who had a copy if he could see it?"

Mr. Meeks shook his head. "I'm sorry sweetheart. Professional discretion, I really couldn't disclose a client's identity, especially when we're talking about a book like this one."

Riza looked crestfallen. "Oh dear." She furrowed her brow. "I was so sure you'd be able to get a copy." She looked a little ashamed of herself. "I might have made a promise I can't keep." It was obvious manipulation, but it was worth a shot. Meeks had always had a soft spot for her.

He huffed out a breath. "Well ... the first fellow wasn't a regular client. Never met him before, called me out of the blue. I think he might have been one of yours, though, State-certified. I mean, if he was, if your friend were to bump into him in the canteen and start up a conversation, he might be able to swing it."

"Oh. That's sweet of you. What was his name?"

Meeks shrugged and grinned, annoyingly serene. "Didn't give me a name. You know how it works, sweetheart, of course I'd catch it. Funny looking old fellow. Big ears. Like a little monkey." The man who'd called at the apartment. Riza had suspected as much, but still she was suddenly aware of her own pulse.

"I don't think I know him. What about the woman? She didn't mention who her boyfriend was?"

"No -" Meeks drew out the word - "but with her I might be able to help. Katherine Flowers. Not a very common surname, is it? I expect you'd be able to find her in the telephone directory. But I really shouldn't be telling you this. Perhaps you could just sniff around and find out who her young man is? He could well be a State Alchemist, if he lives in the city and he's working on this kind of level."

Riza smiled, full of gratitude that was suddenly sincere. Despite all his irritating qualities, Mr. Meeks was kind to her. He always had been. "Thank you. You've really helped me out."

Mr. Meeks gave her a big, beery grin. "Quite all right, quite all right. I know I can trust Hawkeye's little girl to be careful with my reputation." Then he frowned - the first time Riza had seen him do so. "You be careful with that Flowers girl, though. I didn't like her at all. Sly. Cunning. Pity her poor fellow, eh?"

***  
  
***

  
Turning onto the boulevard where her building was located, Riza spotted a telephone box on a street corner. The pavement was wide. From the box, she would see anyone close enough to be listening or watching her. People were still passing up and down the street. It was a good spot. If she was going to call Roy now, it should be from here. She hesitated for a moment, considering it. If she called him now, most likely she would wake him up from a much needed sleep. Then he would have to leave his apartment and walk two blocks to the nearest telephone box to return her call so they could speak securely, and after they had discussed the case, he would return home wired and purposeful, stay up half the night working and pacing and drinking black coffee. Of course then he'd turn up at the office the next morning exhausted - again - and probably have to be discreetly prodded with a pencil when she caught him nodding off during tomorrow's marathon meeting. But no. This was an important development, and best shared immediately.

She slipped into the phonebooth, popped in a coin and dialled.

After she'd counted twenty rings of Roy's telephone, it was clear he wasn't in. Roy was a light sleeper, and his flat was compact enough that he'd reach the hall telephone quickly. No, he would likely have popped out to pick up a late dinner from that dubious little all-night deli opposite his building, where he seemed to get food far too often for the good of his own stomach lining. Hanging suspiciously around the phone box was hardly sensible. No, the better plan was to go home for a few minutes, and then to take Hayate for a late walk and try to call Roy again, perhaps from the phone booth at the other end of her building.

Once at home and waiting, Riza found herself annoyingly wired. She contemplated putting her nervous energy to use and attacking the few unpacked boxes that still taunted her, so long after she'd moved to Central. No, she had a better idea. At this hour, her building's basement gymnasium would be completely deserted. She could tire herself out and release some tension by lifting some weights, or doing a few laps of the pool. Then she could have a short spell in the steam room.

***

Riza had been more tired than she had thought; she'd barely done five laps of the pool before she felt her energy starting to flag. Since this wasn't a proper workout, she didn't push herself. She climbed out, towelled herself off, and headed to the small, tiled steam room. She ladled some water from the tank into the rock chamber, and was pleased to hear that the rocks were still hot enough to hiss with the contact, and to feel an immediate blast of warm, thick steam on her face.

However, after ten minutes of lying on the steam room's hot wooden bench and letting the wet air soak into her pores, Riza found herself noting, as she always did in here, that here was easily one of the most irritating inconveniences caused by the formula tattooed on her back. Covering up in the swimming pool wasn't really a problem, although shopping for a bathing costume with a high enough collar was always annoying. Hiding her back from a new lover until she could trust them enough to explain a little - well, that was vastly inconvenient, so much so that if would definitely take the top spot if, unfortunately, it wasn't such an infrequent problem. Having to keep her high-collared bathing costume on here in the steam room, until the sweat made her skin itch, the material aggravated the heat and threatened to spoil her mood of sleepy languor - yes, that was definitely the worst of the damn thing. Riza scratched idly at the tight scar on her shoulderblade, and contemplated just stripping naked. After so many years spent carefully covering herself in communal bathrooms, dormitories, changing rooms, she instinctively drew back from exposing herself. But in this situation it wasn't rational, was it? The gymnasium was empty and quiet, the hour so late that it was unlikely she'd be interrupted. And in another five minutes she would have to wash up and head out to telephone Roy. Oh, to hell with it. She might as well enjoy this short break properly. Riza popped the studs along the side of her costume and pulled her head and arms out. She mopped the sweat from her face, back and breasts, and felt immediately better. She settled back against the planks and stretched, enjoying the feeling of the warm wood against the skin of her back.

She must have fallen asleep, because suddenly she started and realised that she'd been drifting through thoughts which were half-dreams. Something about the case: Katie herself had come into the office and shouted at them all for interfering with her life. Roy was utterly indignant, Rebecca was offering to pitch Katie out of the window for him, and Riza herself was intervening, irritated, but thinking _at least they're agreeing on something_... There was a creak outside, the sound of a nearby door opening. In an instant, Riza sat bolt upright, wide awake, slipping her costume back on, heart pumping hard. No, this was ridiculous. Her own building. It would be another insomniac tenant, or the janitor, or a cat. She was a soldier, not a schoolgirl, she wasn't going to jump at every noise just because it was past the witching hour.

It occurred to Riza that her gut instincts were generally right.

Outside the steam room, she heard another door open and close, and heavy footsteps approaching. The glass of the steam room door was completely fogged up. If, _if_ , someone was searching for her, they wouldn't be able to see her through the door. She had switched on the lights to every room of the gym when she first came in, because she was only ever comfortable if she could see everything around her clearly, and she was grateful now for her own twitchiness. She slipped to the floor and padded silently to the door, trying her best to keep out of view if someone were to walk in. She crouched by the edge of the door and raised an index finger to slowly wipe the very corner of the glass, praying it didn't squeak and feeling ridiculous for doing so. Then she raised an eye to the peephole she'd made and looked out into the corridor.

A man emerged from the weights room, and looked up and down the corridor. He looked distinctly nondescript: somewhere in his thirties, medium-height and wiry, wearing a dark shirt and denims. The only attention-grabbing thing about him was the gun in his right hand.

Riza clocked the gun: yes, it was a .45 Rinaldi. A decent handgun, compact but powerful, with some range to it, but a kick that made it difficult for an amateur to shoot competently. It wasn't something a petty criminal would carry. Gangsters and assassins were positively fond of it. And Riza? She was in the one place of all places where she neither carried nor concealed a gun. She went to work with a sidearm at her waist. There was always a holster under her jacket on days off, at parties, on dates. She slept with a loaded revolver under her pillow and got gun oil on her sheets. She kept a spare gun wrapped in plastic in the toilet tank and had to fish it out when the plumber came round...but here, of all places, she was unarmed.

The man was moving purposefully down the corridor, heading directly towards the steam room. Riza took a few steps back from the door, and breathed slow and deep. She felt a sharp and unpleasant pang of animal fear, then it was pushed out by anger and self-reproach. She should have been ready for this. She should have taken Hayate out straight away and walked the city streets trying to call Roy from every phone booth she passed, suspicious behaviour be damned. They had suspected that they were being watched, that someone wanted to dissuade people from investigating, had already killed to do so - and yet she'd left herself defenceless, for one brief moment. Now it came to this. Poor Rebecca, losing two friends in one week. She would be so angry. And Roy. Oh no, Roy, it was going to be the exact same thing all over again. Another friend and comrade murdered in the service of his goals, because they'd seen too much of a vile secret. Hughes' murder had nearly destroyed him, and she had been the last thread he'd clung to. How was he going to survive this?

The footsteps rang out clearly. Riza breathed deep, looked around her, and thought fast. Spotting the box of hot rocks, she moved over to it and rubbed her finger along its charcoal-stained wall. The heat scalded her finger a little. She ignored the pain, crouched and daubed a rapid message on the side of the box that wasn't visible from the door: two crude cartoon flowers and the words "bought it". Then she wrote "another", underlining the word.

The footsteps neared the door. Riza stood up, took another deep breath, and squared her shoulders. She had to be ready for any opening, any possibility of escape, of struggle, of negotiation, anything that could prolong her life or improve her chances. If she had the slightest choice in the matter, she was absolutely not going to die here, but the odds were not looking good.

The door swung open. In the doorway, the man looked at Riza, unsurprised and emotionless, his gun held on her casually. Then in one smooth and competent motion, he straightened his gun arm, took aim, cocked the hammer, and fired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original version of this chapter, after staring at a phone booth and pondering what happens when you get shot without sharing your crucial secret information, Riza just decided not to call Roy at all. Thanks to for gently pointing out in the comments thread how incredibly dumb of her, i.e. me that was. This is what TV Tropes calls carrying the [Idiot Ball](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/IdiotBall). I left my big goof/plot hole here for a while, but revised it when this fic went up at scimitarsmile.com in January 2011. I owe yet more thanks for her look-over of the revised version.


	4. Sleeping Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some people do violence and others merely contemplate it, and Mustang fails to keep his mind on the job.

Riza was ready.

The man in the doorway cocked the hammer of the gun as he brought it up, and she was ready - however much good that was going to do her. There was a flash and a crack, and it had already happened: the gun had gone off.

Riza had dived hard into a crouch a fraction of a second before, her torso twisting to one side with one leg swung out and pointed towards the man. In the same movement, she used her momentum to skid forward on the slick floor as if she was skating - the gun fired again, tracking her - and she got her stretched leg between the man's feet and twisted her body. The adrenaline rush numbed her. She had no idea if she'd been hit.

The man went down, hard onto his side. Riza just about kept her balance. He bellowed as he hit the tile; it was the first sound she'd heard him make yet. The gun clattered on the floor, and Riza dove for the gun, but the man had already recovered it and was swinging it up again to shoot.

Then Riza was moving before she even knew if she _could_ move or not, sprinting barefoot out the door and into the gymnasium corridor. Her entire body felt numb and buzzing. Was she shot? She had to be. He'd fired two shots, close range at that ... at least one of them must have struck her. She had no idea where, though. She couldn't feel a thing through the chemical high that was keeping her running. She passed doors, but rejected them; they led to little rooms, where she'd be trapped like an animal. What now? Get to her locker and the sidearm inside it? Get up to her apartment? Get out onto the street? Which?

The fire exit, she decided. Her gun tempted her sorely, but to get to the locker and fumble it open would take time she didn't have. She reached the open gymnasium floor and sprinted across it, heading for the double doors at the end, and feeling unpleasantly like one of her own targets. She reached them, and opened and shut the door carefully so it wouldn't squeal on its hinges. Once through the doors, she padded quickly to the corridor's end, and pushed down the fire door's latch.

The door didn't budge.

She pushed the latch again, trying to do it as quietly as possible. Nothing happened. She looked down the middle of the double doors, past the tantalising crack of streetlamp light to where the lock would be if someone had turned it. A solid little bar ran between the doors: they had indeed been locked. _Oh hell_.

For a moment, Riza was impressed with the assassin's forethought. Then she vaguely remembered an officious notice to tenants from the building's janitor, half-read then thrown away: he would be locking the exterior doors in the evening for security purposes. She'd always disliked that janitor. Right now she would happily kick him in the eye. Right. So what next?

She moved back down the corridor, forcing herself to breathe slowly and carefully. Several doors along the corridor led to small supply and equipment closets. Hiding like an animal was not a good option, but to return to the open floor of the gymnasium now would expose her. Was there a way she could pry the door open? She wasn't sure she'd be able to ram it with her shoulder, but perhaps if there was something in one of the closets she could use as a crowbar?

Riza pushed the first closet door open, and abruptly realised that her left hand was covered in wet blood. She looked down, and tried to flex it. It felt normal, as far as she could tell, though no part of her felt normal right now. She looked again and realised that the blood wasn't coming from her hand, but trailed all the way down her arm from her shoulder. She flipped the closet light on, and as her eyes roved over the shelves of cleaning equipment, she explored her shoulder with her right hand, prodding carefully. At the top of her shoulder, just behind the ridge of the clavicle, she felt an acutely sharp throb of pain. He must have hit her with that first shot as she'd dropped and twisted. She hadn't even felt it. The wound felt small and messy, like raw meat. As soon as she knew it was there and had touched it, it started a harsh, regular pulse of pain, but it didn't seem to be bleeding too heavily. There was no exit wound that she could find. Was the bullet still in her shoulder, or had it only grazed her? The latter, hopefully. Riza tried to cycle her shoulder and found it agony. Investigating further, she found that she could move her elbow, wrist and hand freely, but moving her upper arm from her side pulled too painfully at the wound.

After finding nothing useful in this cupboard, Riza returned to the main corridor to try the next door - and stopped dead. On the floor, a wavering line of little drops of blood reached from one end of the corridor to the other. It suddenly occurred to her that her wound must have been dripping blood steadily since she'd been shot. It would be a neat trail, leading the assassin straight to her current location, where once again she was unarmed, without an exit - and now wounded, too.

As if she had called him with that thought, the door swung open and the man stood framed in the doorway, his pistol trained on her, his face expressionless. He was sweating lightly from the chase, but his posture was calm and relaxed. Riza found herself wanting to say something forceful to him - about his chosen profession, about this humilating pursuit, about how much she wished she had a gun in her hand so he could see exactly what she was capable of - but suddenly she found he wasn't worth the effort. Instead, she just shrugged at him, and held his gaze, waiting.

He didn't drop her immediately, as a true professional would. He just smiled a little and stepped forward quietly, until he was standing only a couple of feet away, right up in her face. He held the gun loosely, casually pointed into her stomach. He was taking this moment, Riza realised, to meet her eyes and sniff her fear. She had a brief flash of memory - _a shark's grin, the sun and the moon, palms held out and ready to clap_ \- and then there wasn't another moment for him to savour.

She brought her left hand up and across from her side to grab the gun's muzzle, continued her arm's movement down, and twisted the man's arm sideways and inwards as she did so. Now the length of the gun was braced against his stomach, the muzzle pointing harmlessly out to one side of them. The man's arm was twisted across his body at a painful angle. He started a torrent of curses, _you fucking bitch, you little_ \- but they barely registered. He pushed back at her hand and twisted hard. He was strong, but his stance was weak, and Riza had learnt a long time ago to be fast. Before he could break her hold she had brought her left hand in under the gun and flipped it over to point the muzzle in. She heard a boney snap as his finger broke. Now the gun's barrel was jammed into the man's stomach. Her shoulder screamed at her, and the man screamed at her, and she ignored them both. She went to flip the gun back and take it from him, but his hand was clamped around it rigidly, and even with a broken finger he was too strong for her to break his grip. Her slim index finger slipped over his own on the trigger. She and he were so close that they were almost forehead to forehead. He had fallen silent, and was staring at her with livid rage. Then his foot jerked hard around her ankle, trying to trip her, twisting his arm forcefully in an attempt to bring the gun up and the muzzle round. She'd braced herself, but her foot still skidded hard.

She jerked her hand shut. The gun fired.

They looked at each other for a moment, hands twined together on the pistol. Its barrel still pointed at his stomach, and a wisp of smoke trailed up from it. The back of his hand felt damp and very warm on her palms. She could smell the burnt cloth of his shirt. His eyes were full of the utter rage, the utter panic of a man who can see his own death. They both knew what she'd just done. She felt a small, familiar rush of satisfaction, and then the bigger rush of horror and disgust coming up right behind it.

The man sank to his knees, then to the floor. Riza followed him down, dropping into a crouch, her hands still on his around the pistol. Soon enough she had prised it out of his loosened fingers and held it cocked in her own right hand. She came up and stepped away a few paces, holding the gun on him.

The man's face was flushed dark now, his left hand clamped over his belly. There was blood slicking his hand, pooling under him and creeping out around him. There was the vile smell of his guts, filling the air around them. Funny how a scent can take you back to the past so quickly and so vividly. She also remembered exactly what a close-range .45 pistol shot would do to a man's abdomen. This man was not about to get up. It was over.

Riza took one step away from the man, then two. Then she turned her back on him and jogged away to find the nearest telephone.

***

In some ways, it was a good thing that Roy only heard about the whole thing after it was all over, and that Riza was safe. For one thing, it meant that he could drive to the hospital with a reasonable chance of not totalling his car. Still, the horror of what had happened welled through him retrospectively as he drove through the empty late-night streets. Only a few minutes ago, he had been dozing on his own sofa while Riza, alone and unarmed, faced down some cowardly rat of a murderer. She could have been dying with no one at her side. Not again ... no, not again.

When he reached the hospital, he killed the engine and sat in the car for a couple of minutes, clenching his jaw and breathing slowly, trying to push the rage down from the surface of his mind. This was not a part of him she needed to see right now.

In the hospital cubicle, Riza sat on the side of the bed in gym gear, her sneakers dangling off the floor and a bulky dressing visible on her left shoulder where her polo shirt was open. When she saw him, she smiled, hopping off the bed and giving him an informal little salute. He tapped two fingers to the side of his head in response. Then he pulled her into a tight hug. She relaxed into it and let a deep, tired breath out. After a moment or two, she pulled away gently and gave him a soft, friendly little punch on the upper arm. He smiled back at her.

Riza said quietly, "My attacker is still in surgery at the moment, but I'm afraid it looks like I've killed him."

" _Good_." It was out of Roy's mouth, low and fierce, before he could even think about moderating his tone.

She frowned. "It is _not_ good. We can't find out who hired him if he's dead. It's really regrettable that I wasn't able to put him down with less force." She smiled with one side of her face. "Still, I'm glad I managed as well as I did."

So was Roy. He said, "I already called Falman. He's going to take charge of guarding the assassin. He'll be here if we get a chance to question the man." If Roy saw the fucker right now, he wasn't sure he could trust himself not to incinerate him. "Someone did his homework. This bastard managed to get you in the only place you don't have a gun stashed ... and I'm including the bath and your own bed here."

Riza swatted his arm again. Her mood was lifting a little, and he felt his own mood lighten along with it. "I'm cautious. Someone has to be."

Roy rolled his eyes theatrically. "Milne again? It was one time. And I'm never going to live it down, am I? You know I was carrying spare gloves at the time-"

"It was not just one time. I can think of several times you've been caught off-guard, without even trying. I keep telling you, all you have to do is carry a grease pencil and a box of camping matches-"

"Which I have done for the last two years." Roy took the matchbox from his inside pocket and shook it at her. "I should be scolding you, for failing to find somewhere to conceal a revolver in a steam room." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. A dangerous move, perhaps, but she needed cheering up.

Riza huffed out a little laugh. "I'm sure that's specifically prohibited in the Weapons Safety Manual."

"Listen. Come over and stay on my couch tonight. We can talk this whole thing over at mine. And if there are any more murderers, we'll see them off together."

Riza smiled again and hefted her bag with her good arm. "Or burn the place down because one of us heard a floorboard creak."

"Good idea. If there are no assassins by 3am and we're bored, you can shoot the gas stove, and I'll set the library on fire."

Roy took her bag from her and she allowed him to do so, a sign that she was going to take him up on his offer. He opened the cubicle curtain and waved her chivalrously through. With another little laugh and a shake of her head, Riza started toward the hallway. Roy followed her and fell into step by her side, and together they walked down the corridor and out of the hospital doors.

***

"Bastard," said Breda, standing over the office chessboard.

"Asshole," agreed Havoc, flipping through his rolodex.

"Coward," commented Falman, dumping a neat stack of papers onto Mustang's empty desk.

"Motherfucker," said Fuery. There was a short pause. Everyone stared. Fuery went pink. Then he muttered, "I'm _twenty-five_. When am I allowed to start swearing?"

"When you can grow a beard, dude," Breda replied. He hovered his forefinger over a knight, then picked it up and moved it assertively, dropping a few croissant crumbs on the board. _Check_. Then he sauntered back towards his desk with a feeling of job satisfaction.

"So the assassin's still in the hospital?" Ross wandered in with a clipboard.

"He's in the morgue." Breda threw the crumpled paper bag which had held his croissant at a wastepaper basket, violently. It bounced off the side.

"He died without regaining consciousness, at 0417 this morning." Falman added. "Did you know the hour around 4am is by far the most common time of night to die? The current scientific theory is that ..."

" _My_ scientific theory is that he was a cowardly fucking dickwad who deserved to be gutshot with his own gun." This was Dino, who was new to the team, and apparently picked things up fast.

"Mmm." This was Miles, another newcomer. He didn't say much, but it was impressive how much meaning and emphasis he could pack into his conversational noises.

"And didja hear about that bookseller Hawkeye got the info from, Jasper Meeks?" Breda retrieved his paper bag and dropped it into the bin. "He turned up floating in the West Canal this morning with his throat cut. We sent a couple of guys round to his house last night after the murder attempt, but he wasn't in - guess they got him straight after he left Hawkeye."

"Guys." Havoc waved a hand for silence, and got it. There was only the vaguest hint of apology in his tone. Jeez, it was so much more difficult to fuck with him these days. "Sorry to break up the party, but if we're going to talk about this stuff, we should probably just save it for the case meeting we were supposed to be having five minutes ago."

When Mustang had insisted that all meetings on certain sensitive topics take place outside of headquarters, he really should have been able to predict that certain key members of his inner circle would take this to mean "in the back room of a pub, with refreshments funded by the petty cash box." As far as Breda was concerned, with the crazy hours they were working, any fringe benefits they could manage to secure were fair enough. Luckily, Havoc agreed, and so the relevant personnel headed out to one of their regular haunts, and took a private room in the back.

Breda put a tray of drinks down on the table. He handed a milky coffee to Ross, a lime soda to Fuery, an iced water to Falman, a pint of brown ale to Havoc, a lager to himself, and a bowl of nuts to the table at large. He also put down three pork pies, not five, because the spirit of competition was good for people.

Havoc took a sip of ale and rested his cigarette on the ashtray. Then he narrowed his eyes, steepled his fingers, attempted to wipe the smile from his face, and said forcefully, "First Lieutenant Breda, the facts, please."

Ross giggled. Fuery smirked round his lime soda. Breda threw a peanut at Havoc.

Havoc grinned infuriatingly and waved his cigarette. "Hey now, First Lieutenant. Don't make me write you up for insubordination."

Breda threw another peanut, and Havoc caught it neatly in his mouth. Then he threw a peanut back and it caught Breda in the eye.

Ross said dryly, "See how we strike fear into the hearts of evildoers."

Breda leant forward, and got down to business. "Well, _sir_ "- Havoc beamed at him smugly, savouring the honorific and ignoring the sarcasm -"Here's what we've got. Someone bought a copy of an illegal alchemic text called _The Perfection of Matter_ from a sketchy alchemy book dealer called Meeks. Captain Catalina's roommate Katherine Flowers, a politician with no interest in alchemy, bought another copy recently. Someone shot Flowers to death in her own apartment. Someone who fits the description of the guy who bought the book turned up at the apartment Sunday and tried to retrieve the other copy."

Ross frowned. "So the implication is that this person, these people, are using the book for some kind of illicit research? But the Brigadier General hinted to me that we're thinking it was a political murder. Are we speculating that Hakuro's faction are involved in taboo alchemy?"

There was a silence round the table, then four nods. Falman sighed heavily, and Havoc took a big bite of pork pie.

Ross said, "Ah." Then, a little gingerly, "What kind of taboo alchemy?"

"We won't know the details until the Elrics get back to us, but - it's biological alchemy. Consider the nasty possibilities."

There was a short pause, while everyone considered the nasty possibilities. Ross looked grim, and a little hunted. Havoc glowered and took a long drag on his cigarette. Fuery looked like he was watching one of the gory parts from a horror movie. Falman sweated lightly.

Breda took a swig of beer, and decided it was time to rescue everyone from memory lane. "Now here's what I think about the Flowers murder: someone knew Catalina wouldn't be at home that evening to fill his ass full of lead." Signs of renewed interest from around the table; nice save. "There's no doubt our somebody was after the book, but he left without it. My guess: a pal of his was watching the office, and knew Catalina was on her way home."

Ross tapped her coffee spoon against her front teeth. "But how would that work? The murderer was in the apartment, how could his colleague warn him?"

Fuery said, "They could do it pretty easily, actually. He could have had a radio - or they could have a signal system like the one we had worked out for the coup - when Catalina left the office, the accomplice could have radioed or called a third colleague who was in a building with a window that could be seen from Catalina and Flowers' place. You put a light in the window, and that's the murderer's signal to get out quick. And there are so many abandoned buildings in the city right now, it wouldn't be difficult."

"So, these asswipes have manpower and resources, then - and they've got to be good." Havoc waved his pork pie in a manner that was perhaps meant to convey 'top quality assassins.' "I mean, Al says the people who attacked him were professionals. And whoever followed Hawkeye home last night - well, they managed to follow her home without her spotting them and popping a cap in their eye. That's not just professional, that's serious."

Fuery asked, "But how did they know to attack her in the gym? I mean, it was really late when she got in, right? Wouldn't they assume she was just going to bed?"

Breda said, "My theory is, the guy was watching her apartment. He was probably planning to wait until she was asleep, then move in for the kill. Hawkeye hitting the gym was just a lucky chance."

Havoc laughed shortly. "Not sure I'd rate his chances even if she was asleep. I mean, can you imagine the amount of firepower she must be keeping at home? I mean, we all carry, but Hawkeye - I've seen that woman packing three guns at a kid's birthday party."

"I dunno," said Breda. "The big gangs do that thing where they wait for the person to fall asleep, then put a pipe under the bedroom door and gas them."

Fuery said, "I think I'm going to sleep with all the windows open now."

Havoc said, "Becky likes to do that anyway, so we're good." He got a dreamy, thoughtful look in his eyes. "I think she must just have really good circulation, she never gets cold, you know, and you'd think she would, 'cause she likes to sleep nak-"

"Jar!" yelled Breda.

"But we're outside the office! Don't be bending the rules on me, man."

"Since this is an official unofficial meeting and we're all pulling rank on each other and shit, office rules apply. Pony up."

Fuery pulled a jam jar out of his bag and held it out to Havoc. It had a slot stabbed into the lid and it was about half full with coins and the odd note. A label glued to it read, "The Havoc-Catalina TMI Fund. Please Give Generously."

"I can't believe you brought the jar to the pub," Havoc grumbled, fishing about in his pockets for a coin.

"What do we do when it's full?" asked Ross.

"Take ourselves out for dinner without them," said Breda.

Fuery rattled the jar. "I think we might end up with enough for a whole weekend away."

"We could call it a retreat," said Ross. "To recharge our batteries and prepare for a fresh onslaught."

"Jealous little people," said Havoc. "Petty, insanely jealous little people."

Unruffled, Ross changed the subject. "This man who bought the first copy of the book? He's likely to be a state alchemist, yes? Captain Havoc, you saw him, and so did Major Hawkeye and Captain Catalina. If we went through the state alchemist files, would you recognise him from a photograph?"

"Most definitely. Guy was a weird-looking asshole, his ears stick out like yacht sails."

Falman said, "But that's seventy-eight years of records. To go through them all, Captain Havoc would have to spend the next two weeks in the file room."

Havoc said, quickly, "Not gonna happen."

Breda said, "Okay, then, let's break this down. How old was this guy at most, seventy-five? We go through the records and put together a list of every male State Alchemist who qualified in the last fifty years, then we pull the files, get the photographs and give them to Havo."

Falman nodded. "That's doable. I'll get a few of the lower ranks on it, and we can get the photos on your desk by tonight, Captain. You're working this evening?"

Havoc shrugged and pulled a face. "Like everyone else. There's another trail we can follow, too. I've been thinking, and I reckon I can find out where all these hired goons are coming from. Our guy is probably hiring them all out of the same gang. Rivalry between different gangs in organised crime is pretty harsh, he'd have to be dumb to be using two competitors. And there aren't many gangs operating who are that professional, I reckon we're looking at a pretty short list. These guys might be tracking us, but I can track 'em right back."

Fuery boggled. "How do you know all this gangster stuff? I thought you dealt with _businessmen_."

"Yeah, _legitimate businessmen_ ," said Havoc dryly. "Everyone big in business is mixed up in this stuff. If I didn't want to shake hands with the rotten ones, I'd pretty much be cutting deals with my ma and that old guy who sells pretzels by the railway station."

Fuery sighed, and went for the last pork pie. Before he'd reached across the table, Ross had already claimed it and taken a delicate bite.

***

***

Rebecca's feet hurt. This was what happened when you were forced to wear chunky army boots to work all day: you finally found an occasion where you could put on some kick-ass heels, and what did you get? Blisters on your achilles tendons, that's what. Of course there had been that time, just after Jean had rejoined the team, when she'd managed to get away with wearing the uniform skirt and heels every day for a whole two weeks. In the end, Riza had pulled rank on her and informed her that as part of her job was security, she needed to be able to run and shoot without being tripped up by her own pencil skirt and non-regulation black stilettos. Still, she was fairly sure that Riza had deliberately delayed the telling-off until the sexy girl uniform had fulfilled its mission. Riza might have a stick up her ass sometimes, but when the chips were down, she was a true friend.

Rebecca's mind was wandering. She couldn't blame it. She really didn't want to be here. Funerals sucked.

This funeral in particular was offering plenty of suckage besides the central, horrible, impossible fact of Katie being gone. Rebecca's heels hurt. The roots of her hair were aching - she'd fought it into a neat, tight bun with about a bajillion hairpins, most of which were digging into her scalp. The funeral itself was mostly a big pile of crapola. Katie's dad had made a sweet speech about how headstrong she was and how she'd always gone after what she wanted in life, but then he'd broken down halfway through and had to be helped off the podium. Then the celebrant had completely undercut his words with an improvised babble about what a tragedy it was that Katherine - whom he'd never met - had never had the chance to know the height of womanly fulfillment as a wife and mother. All Katie and Rebecca's old schoolfriends had nodded sagely, and Rebecca had felt outraged. Whenever the old crowd got together, these women - most of whose kids were practically teenagers now - had always treated Katie and Rebecca like aliens. They seemed to think careers in the army and politics were some kind of sad, compensatory hobby that kept them both busy since they didn't have a husband, kids or a home to run. Katie and she had turned it into a game, to try and shock them as much as possible with their unfeminine achievements. Katie blithely talked about how the civil service ran on bribes and how she'd beat her nearest rival for parliamentary candidate by playing dirty, and Rebecca would one-up her with funny stories about firing a rocket launcher at a truck or blowing her boyfriend in the firing range equipment closet. The schoolfriends were shocked, and Katie and Rebecca would go home afterwards and cheer each other up by mocking them until they couldn't speak for laughing, and celebrating all the cool stuff they got to do that their friends back in the 'burbs were missing out on. They'd make each other feel better about it by saying things like _am I a bitch? Am I awful for saying this?_ They would never be able to do that again. Those losers got to have the last word about Katie's life, and it was so goddamn unfair.

Yet another thing that sucked: she had a mission here. She was supposed to be gathering information on the sly and watching out for that monkey-faced weirdo who'd turned up at the flat and tried to take Katie's freaky alchemy book. All right, she was on board with that. She wanted to nail the bastards...but Rebecca was not entirely confident of her spying abilities. Broad innuendo and below-the-belt verbal attacks she was great at, but delicate deception ... not so much. Plus, she wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders right now. She hadn't had a full night's sleep since the murder, and she'd been feeling spaced out and wonky with sleep deprivation for days. Every morning she would wake up and feel normal for three seconds of peaceful ignorance, and then the whole horrible thing would crash down on her at once. Even worse than the sleepless nights, she kept having these moments where she'd be doing something ordinary - typing, buying a sandwich, cleaning her gun - and then, boom, she'd see Katie lying in a bathtub full of blood and all that horror and helplessness and fear would sock her right over the head. Rebecca hated the freak-outs. It wasn't that she minded being looked after once in a while (Jean had been so good to her these past few days), it was just feeling so out of control that got her, having no idea what shit her brain was going to pull on her next.

As if all that wasn't enough, she had to deal with the bursts of utter rage, as unpredictable as the violent flashes of memory or the fits of unbearable grief. These bastards had murdered her oldest friend in cold blood, had left her bleeding out and terrified, and now they had gone after Riza too. The idea of being caught unarmed like that creeped Rebecca out in the worst way - it was one of her top five nightmare scenarios, actually - and although Riza didn't exactly share top fives, she knew the woman well enough to be sure it would make her list too. There were so many assholes out there who'd love to get a woman who could outshoot them without her gun. Dickwads. Whoever these people were, she wanted them all in front of her in a line; she wanted to shoot them in the kneecaps, to make them scream. She was so angry that she could hardly recognise herself. Part of her hoped monkey-face didn't show up at the wake, because if he did, she felt like she was going to go straight for her revolver.

So yeah, here she was, half-listening to a bunch of stupid, supposedly comforting funeral speeches that did nothing whatsoever to help, trying to deal with her own malfunctioning brain, trying to accept that there would be no Katie in her life ever again, and to top it all off, she was under orders from the boss to somehow work during all of this and actually shake up some clues. She so didn't feel up to it right now. Goddamn Mustang. She'd like to see him try this sometime.

***

The meeting was, as expected, interminable. It didn't help that both Roy and Riza were currently functioning on about four hours of sleep. It was predictable that Riza had insisted on coming to work today, despite the gunshot wound, the stitches, and the prescription painkillers. If she had been any other person he might have assumed it was a delirium brought on by the shock of the murder attempt. However, it was Riza, and Roy had been unable to argue with her logic: the murder of his right-hand woman was the kind of move that really could trigger a civil war. Whether or not Hakuro's faction had hired the assassin, it was important that she appear unharmed.

The incident seemed to seal that whoever it was must be truly desperate now to throw off the investigation: for the culprits to risk a direct strike against him and his team that could have rebounded badly upon them ... the implications of that weren't pleasant. For a start, it meant it was more and more likely that those concerned were actually making practical use of _The Perfection of Matter_. It also suggested a likely scenario that would be very bad indeed, which was that the clock was running down towards the day they'd achieve their goal. Whatever that was.

Most of Bradley's top brass were long gone, either casualties of the Promised Day or having fled the country in its aftermath. Those who remained were the third stringers and the rising stars: men and women who may or may not have known about Fuhrer Bradley's monstrosity or the country's true purpose. Men and women whom nothing, unfortunately, could be pinned upon. However, this business of taboo biological alchemy for some unknown purpose was horribly suggestive of the vileness which had been the old brass's bread and butter: chimerae, artificial humans, the immortal army, and all the rest.

He trusted that Fullmetal and Alphonse were working hard. It was urgent that they decode _The Perfection of Matter_ as soon as possible, before the other side could put it to use. He should explain the situation tonight to give them a little push.

Hakuro's secretary, a middle-aged major with a sharp face, was talking. She had been talking for twenty minutes already, the dullness of her briefing in direct and probably calculated proportion to the amount of buzzing tension in the room. Here they were as usual, the heart of the old guard versus the highest-ranking officers in Roy's faction, facing each other across a committee table and trying really, really hard not to kill one another. Every utterance from anyone's mouth held a hidden freight of meaning so obvious that it was as if subtitles were hanging in the air. Colonel Addison (goalkeeper, Team Hakuro) would say "In my opinion, we should keep up the current procedures for regional joint training exercises", and the subtitle would say _your reforms would destroy the military, and then this country, and then land us all in front of a firing squad._ Riza, (striker and star player, Team Mustang) would counter with "The survey as I read it suggests that current procedures have some substantial flaws", and it would be obvious to all that she meant _this country was shaped by power-crazed monsters and we are going to reshape it into something decent, you old coward, risks and dangers be damned._ Then Brigadier General Ionesco, like the equivocator he was, would comment that they both made excellent points, and it would clearly mean _please don't do that, it's steak and poker night at my club this evening and I don't want to miss it because you started a war._

At least in the old days, he would have Olivia Armstrong sitting on the opposite side of the table, with her arms folded and a magnificent sneer on her face. She would say something appalling and unconscionable, and Roy would experience a strong urge to kick her on the shin, frequently followed by a vivid sexual fantasy about them ripping each others' uniforms off and going at it on the boardroom table. That had passed the time beautifully. Now with Hakuro across the table from him instead, he had triple the anger and moral disgust, but none of the entertaining sexual tension. It was a real shame Armstrong had gone and got herself killed.

Riza's voice was even, assured, and casual when she spoke, and she took notes with a steady hand as she sat opposite the men who had very possibly tried to have her killed the day before. Buried somewhere deep in her core, there was likely anger and deep disquiet. When Riza Hawkeye told her emotions what to do, they obeyed as quickly and reliably as Hayate - or indeed any of his team for that matter. As for Roy, he could school his face into a blank mask easily enough, but he could only wish to stop the tides of rage that made him want to haul these bastards up by their collars and shake some answers out of them, or perhaps just to fry them all to a crisp. Hakuro was sitting opposite him, arms folded, a tense, red-faced bulk. It seemed he was picking up on Roy's tension; did he know he'd been caught out? Was he guilty or innocent in this?

Hakuro's secretary still hadn't finished her report. Roy glanced over at Riza's notes, concise and reliable as ever. The last thing she had written on the page was, STOP DAYDREAMING, MUSTANG, in small, neat capitals.

***

Rebecca hovered around Mr and Mrs Flowers' large sitting room, clutching a half-empty cup of bad, lukewarm coffee. The wake was crowded: Katie's relatives, her annoying so-called schoolfriends, fellow politicians from the Progressive Party, old boyfriends looking nervous - _yeah, they're dying on us now_ \- all bumping shoulders and trying to find things to say that weren't completely lame. So far Rebecca had been trapped into conversations with three of Katie's civil service colleagues who had all felt compelled to tell her fulsomely how very sorry they were, yet were clearly not quite as sorry as they were claiming to be. Rebecca suspected the glowing tributes sullied with the faint smell of bullshit had something to do with the presence of Katie's boss. Apparently grief was now acting as a form of workplace one-upmanship. Jeez, this is why Rebecca was right to stick with the army - and oh yeah, there was absolutely no sign of their suspect.

"Hello, there." Rebecca looked over to see a middle-aged man, a few pounds overweight, wearing a good suit, with curly hair in a boyish mop that was starting to turn an undignified grey. He'd lost his looks eight years ago at least, she figured, but it seemed nobody had told him yet. He had to be a politician. "You must be another of Katie's schoolfriends. You don't look like one of those civil service bluestockings." There was a powerful whiff of strong liquor coming off his breath. Wait, they had booze at this thing? Where was it, and why hadn't anyone given her any yet?

Then she thought, _oh yeah, mission_ , and smiled sweetly. "Yeah, Katie and me went back a long time. What about you? You don't look like a civil service bore."

"I was a party comrade of hers, you know, the Progressive Party. Nicholas Dunleavy, Member of Parliament for Central West." He put out a hand for her to shake. It was gentle, and very slightly sweaty. Eww, dead fish handshake.

"Katie was really into all that politics stuff, huh?"

"'Into that politics stuff'?" Dunleavy chuckled at her, then his mood suddenly did a 180. Man, he was wasted. "That girl was the future leader of this party. Of the country, if we had anything to do with it."

 _What? Was this guy just drunk and full of shit, or_? "What? What do you mean? I mean, I heard Katie was going to be a parliamentary candidate, but ... she was so young." Rebecca tried to sound innocent. Luckily, it looked like this guy had already decided that she was an airhead, and had no apparent interest in finding out what she did for a living. So she was good, for now.

Dunleavy suddenly sounded drunkenly bitter. He waved a hand around the room. "The leaders of this party are finished. I'd give 'em three years at the most. They don't have the support of the rank and file. Bradley's parliament was there to look decorative. Now we might get our hands on some real power, these idiots don't know what to do with it. They'll roll over like good dogs and let Mustang's army bunch screw us over."

Rebecca felt utterly flabbergasted. Her mouth hung open. She decided to just run with it - this guy clearly thought she was the type to be easily shocked. "Katie was going for party leadership?"

Something dark and authentically miserable crept into Dunleavy's slurred voice. "No, no, not officially. But she would have been, in time. We were helping her up. She was doing wonderfully ... brilliant woman, so focused, frightening even."

 _Focused? Frightening? Party leader? What the fuck_? This was scatty, mousy little Katie they were talking about, right? She had been brilliant, sure, but a quiet, hard-working type, who kept her head down. Sure, she had a sneaky side a mile wide, but Rebecca had always liked that about her. Was this guy talking out of his ass? Why hadn't Katie said anything?

 _Oh. Well that sucked, now didn't it?_

"Mustang's army bunch are gonna screw you over?" she said weakly. "I thought ... you guys and those guys were allies? I mean, Mustang's a democrat, right? I thought it was Hakuro you didn't like?"

Dunleavy gave her a slightly unfocused, pitying look. "You can't have dealt with the army much, then. The military aren't _democrats_. You really think they'd reform that far? They'd be reforming themselves out of power, out of a job. Digging their own graves. No. They might be _allies_ , but we're not on the same side. Never trust a soldier."

"Don't people usually say _never trust a politician_?" Goddamn mouth, it could have asked her first.

Dunleavy looked at her, the cogs visibly turning in his brain. He said, a little reedy, "What did you say your name was again?"

 _Busted. Ah, fuck it_. "Captain Rebecca Catalina, Amestris Army. Katie was my roommate. Although I guess I just got to know her a little better."

"You serve under Mustang." It was a flat statement. Katie must have mentioned that detail. Dunleavy looked at her appraisingly. "Good day to you." He turned on his heel, and walked away.

Rebecca pulled a particularly annoying pin from her bun, and let her hair start to make its escape. She lifted her foot and rubbed at the back of her heel. _What the fuck_?

***

It was past ten when Roy finally got back to his apartment. He called out a hello, unsure of whether or not he'd find the place empty. There was no response. He kept his gloves on after he shrugged off his coat, and went to check over the apartment. It was only sensible to be cautious. He sincerely hoped that Fullmetal wasn't such an idiot as to think it'd be funny to startle him.

When he stepped into the library, he found it devoid of murderers and alchemists alike. Well, until he heard a small noise and spotted Edward's booted feet on the floor on the opposite side of the desk. Then he heard a little snore. Roy grinned to himself, and went to check out the rest of the flat.

A couple of minutes later, having found zero assassins, he was back in the library. When Roy would come home and find the room in a semblance of order, he knew it meant that Alphonse had been there too. Today, Alphonse had clearly been elsewhere. The desk was a chaos of papers, half-sketched arrays, empty coffee cups, and crumpled brown paper bags that had once held greasy snack food. The floor was still full of messy stacks of reference books, and increasing amounts of Edward's personal items. One of Ed's hair ties lay on the rug by Roy's foot, with a few wisps of blond hair still caught in it. Ed's brown jacket was slung over the back of the desk chair. On top of a pile of papers sat a little bottle of automail oil with a thin metal needle applicator. Edward had better have been applying that in the bathroom, and not the library. A wind-up portable gramophone lay open on the floor with a stack of records tucked into the pocket inside the lid of its case. Honestly, he might as well have put up curtains and a welcome mat.

Edward was still lying flat on his back on the floor, snuffling in his sleep. Ed's ability to sleep anywhere - a hard wooden floor, a third-class train seat, on one occasion standing upright in front of Roy's desk - was one of his many impressive powers. He had propped a book over his face. Roy leant forward to check - no, it was a reference volume, modern, not expensive or fragile, and he didn't seem to have drooled on it ... much. He was off the hook.

Roy took a moment before waking him up: here was a rare opportunity to take a good look at Edward unobserved. When he was awake, Roy tended to pay more attention to what he was saying (or shouting, or sneering) than anything else. Ed had his left hand over his belly, rucking up his t-shirt to expose a few inches of lean abdominal muscle. The posture was faintly, amusingly reminiscent of the Fullmetal of old: the obnoxious, round-faced, brilliant little brat who had stomped through Roy's old office in East City shouting insults, with his scruffy suitcase, his big boots, that awful jacket, and an embarrassed seven-foot suit of armour trailing in his wake. Now the suit of armour had been replaced with with a freckle-faced, lanky young man with his own sharp tongue and his own brilliance to temper... and here was the new Fullmetal. Roy looked him over, and it was fair to say that he had blossomed. Odd how he was so vocally dismissive of his father and his father's people when he himself looked like he had stepped straight out of a Xerxean tomb painting: the high ponytail, the high cheekbones, the large eyes with a slight feline tilt to them, not to mention that colouring: yellow hair, amber eyes, and olive skin. People must comment. He wondered what Ed had to say when they did.

Well, Roy had had his fun. He decided to call a halt to it now, before he got himself caught.

He picked up a heavy reference book from the desk, held it a few inches above the table top, then let it drop.

Edward twitched, but carried on snoring.

Roy abandoned subtlety, and said loudly and clearly, "Edward, I think I'd prefer my library not to be coated in your spittle."

Ed made a sound, and blearily, clumsily swatted the book from his forehead. Roy bent down and caught it before the pages could crease. Ed looked up at him and said slowly, "Oh. Huh. Sorry, I guess. Is the book okay?"

An apology, and only barely a grudging one. It seemed Edward really had grown up. "Yes. I'm surprised you didn't go for the sofa. It's an excellent spot for a nap."

Ed waved a hand. "I got backache, so I lay down on the floor for a second, and ..." He yawned, then winced at a twinge of pain.

Roy said, "Aren't you a little young to be complaining about a bad back? "

Ed shrugged. "Automail." Of course, Roy mentally kicked himself. "It's heavy, so I use my muscles differently. My back gets all cracky, I have to do all these exercises. It's worse if I sit for a long time." He stretched, and, good as his word, produced a few audible little crunches, clicks and pops. But he didn't get up.

Roy rarely felt a trace of guilt about ordering his staff into long hours, hard work or physical discomfort. Real pain, however, was a different matter. Edward's uncharacteristic quietness and lack of griping bothered Roy, too. "Want some painkillers for it? I have the good ones."

Edward mumbled, "Nothing that'll make me go to sleep. I gotta ..." He waved a hand again, vaguely, and was half-asleep again. Funny to see Edward so relaxed right here in his own home, although maybe that was just the backache and exhaustion.

Roy headed into the bathroom to retrieve the pills and a glass of water. The good ones did, in fact, make you rather drowsy, but he doubted that was going to be a problem for Edward. He'd call him a cab after he'd gotten an update on the research, and order him home to get a decent night's sleep. As he rummaged through the cabinet, he allowed himself a moment to feel bad for Edward. He'd gone through his whole adolescence firmly believing that double amputation and automail were a temporary inconvenience, and now he found himself stuck with both for the rest of his life.

Roy wondered how that had come about, exactly. How on the Promised Day had Al been restored and yet Ed hadn't? On the other hand, he knew absolutely, without needing to ask, why the brothers would not be going back to the Gate for more. Still ...

Back in the library, Edward had stood up, and was doing a series of stretching exercises, slow, tired, and graceful.

Roy put the water and two pills on the desk. Edward finished his move and picked up the pills, flicking them down his throat without even looking at them, and chasing them with most of the glass of water. Then he propped one ankle up on the edge of the desk and started doing some leg stretches. Ed folded himself easily almost in half; his forehead touched his locked knee. His eyelids drooped.

Roy decided to get down to business before Fullmetal crashed and had to be rolled into the cab home. He sat down on the sofa, folded his arms, and said rather conversationally, "Someone tried to murder Major Hawkeye last night."

"What?" Behind him, he felt the desk shift slightly as Edward recoiled with a jerk. Ed was in front of him in a flash. "What? Is she okay? What happened?"

"She's fine." Roy told him what they knew. Edward perched on the arm of the sofa and listened intently, fully awake now.

Edward frowned. "So this guy who bought the first book, if he's an alchemist, he's got to be easy to track down - he's got to be a pretty advanced biological alchemist to make sense of _The Perfection of Matter_. Maybe he's one of Hakuro's guys, and that's why the Progressives wanted to investigate. They want to weaken the military's old guard, right? Maybe they were going to offer the information to you in exchange for reforms or something?"

Roy blinked. Since when had Edward kept up with politics?

"That's what we're thinking."

Edward huffed a little laugh, then dropped heavily down from his perch to the seat of the couch. He said, "I get it. We're short on time. Al and I - we need this decoding done so we can wrap this up before anyone else gets hurt." That was weird. Roy was leading up to the switch of subject, but he hadn't actually made it yet. "But we're getting close."

"How close to being able to tell me what _takwin_ is?"

"Days ... hopefully one or two days. Get off my back, okay, we're working flat out." Ed didn't put a lot of energy into the rote insult.

"Do you have anything for me yet?"

"Nothing solid. We've got a working theory about how the symbology of the code works. Al thinks that the rituals it describes aren't really just rituals: that all the religious concepts and the ritual forms have a double meaning. People might have actually done all the bowing and prayers and incense and crap, but it's also a coded description of the alchemic formulae themselves. We found a couple of other Xerxean texts we think are written the same way, it's kind of one of Al's pet theories."

Roy was fascinated. This culture had seen alchemy not as man's attempts to control the elements, but as holy work, a way of humbly reaching up to the divine. He said, "It's a whole different way of seeing alchemy. What's it like, being immersed in that?" It was as close as he dared come to, _how do you feel about your father's people_?

"Annoying. All this false humility religious crap, but the guy who wrote that" - he jerked a thumb over at _The Perfection of Matter_ , lying tiny and innocuous on the desk - "was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. The Xerxeans believed all this crap, and then one day, one of their hypocrite alchemists went and wiped them out to make a giant Philosopher's Stone. Bye bye Xerxes." He waved a dismissive hand, as if to say that the people concerned were nothing to do with him.

Roy didn't know quite what to say - so he got back to business. "I'd like to read your translation when it's done. How do we do that? I gather they'll all be written in your shorthand, and I don't want you giving me a non-encrypted version, it isn't secure. You could read it aloud?"

Ed said, "Maybe I should just tell you the code."

Roy blinked. This was not something he had expected to hear. Alchemists didn't share their encryption methods lightly. His own code, Riza knew, and ... well, that was everyone.

Ed seemed embarrassed at the pause he'd created. He went on, a little fast, "If you just read my shorthand, It'd be only you and me and Al who could understand it. So it's secure. And it'd be a pain in the ass to read it all out to you. And I know then you'd be able to read all my other notes, but that's cool because there's no way you're ever getting your hands on them. Plus if I made up a new code just for these notes, it'd take _days and days_ to come up with a good one, and we don't have time." _Never mind that it'd take most alchemists months to do that_ , Roy thought. It was rather charming when Edward failed to notice that he was being brilliant.

"You're right, this is the best way. If you're prepared to."

Ed shrugged. "It's not like I'm handing you my notebooks." Then Roy thought he heard him mumble, "you're all right." But he couldn't be sure.

***

***

A few minutes later, Roy quietly closed the library door. Edward was not currently in a cab, but asleep on the sofa. Roy headed to the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and stretched out in bed, mulling over the odd conversation he'd just had with Edward. It turned out that Ed had a shorthand system that was designed to look like a diary. More specifically, it had the appearance of a travel journal with the names of elements encrypted, and the means of travel were code for various transmutation processes. It was obviously the same code he'd been using since he was a kid. Still, Edward had been a prodigy. The code was neat, clever and very difficult to unravel by guesswork. Yet it worked logically - once you understood it, it would be possible to guess or invent code for any element or process you wanted to. He imagined that was intentional; the brothers must have used the shorthand to communicate and share their notes.

"If I give you, like, five examples, you can pick up the way the encryption works," Edward had said. Roy had tried not to show his nervousness: Ed always tended to assume that everyone was as clever as he was, only to fall into open mockery when he discovered that they weren't. However, he'd been pleased to find that he had picked it up rather quickly, which was a good thing, as Edward's head had begun drooping by that point.

Not long after, Roy had looked over after reading a test code Edward had given him, and found him fast asleep, his head propped up on his hand. Roy had looked at him, and thought, _human weapon or not, I am not sending you off alone and doped up in a cab while assassins are targeting my men_. He'd quietly left, and returned with the blanket Riza had used on the living room couch last night. At this rate, his entire team was going to be camped out in his apartment by the end of the week. He'd fully anticipated an annoying confrontation on the subject with a tired, grouchy Fullmetal, but instead had found Edward curled on the couch with his boots off, out like a light. That couldn't be good for his back. Still, there was no way Roy was offering him the bed. He'd thrown the blanket over him, tugged out the corners to cover him properly, and left.

It was interesting, Roy thought, seeing Fullmetal in such a mellow mood. Roy wasn't sure that he didn't miss the jibes. Something was shifting between them these past few days. Perhaps it was talking in the library, the way they could meet as equals there, as fellow scientists, that did it - but when they argued now, Edward and he were doing more than slinging insults. When he was discussing alchemy, Edward's jibes were witty and astute, his challenges usually substantial and worth thinking about. Roy was surprised to find that on this subject at least, their games of words seemed to go somewhere, that he and Edward both seemed to end them charged with new ideas and shifted perspectives. If he were honest with himself, he felt as if -

The telephone rang.

Out in the hallway, Roy picked up. A familiar voice said "Fire brigade?" Followed by a dirty, nicotine-addled laugh.

"Wrong number," said Roy wearily. "Stop disturbing decent citizens so late at night." He hung up, grabbed his jacket, and trudged out to the nearest telephone box to call Havoc back.

"It's me."

Havoc's voice buzzed with static over the field telephone. "Hey, chief. We finished checking through the files, and it looks like our guy was a State Alchemist after all. Retired. You might know him, come to think of it, looks like he was in Ishbal. Henry Katzenklavier?"

" _Fuck_."

There was a short pause, while Roy collected himself and tried to send the bile back to his stomach where it belonged. He held the phone receiver away from his mouth, and put his forehead against the cool glass panes of the booth.

"Chief? You still there?"

Roy closed his eyes for a moment, then shut himself down and reclaimed the receiver.

"Yes. I know him. This isn't good."


	5. The Buddy System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ed finds himself in an awkward position, Madam Christmas goes fishing and Al is economical with the truth.

Smoky, human grease clung to Roy's face. Sandy grit clung to the grease. His lungs burned. It was twenty hundred hours, and as was usual at the end of a shift, Roy was suffering from a mess of minor bodily discomforts; he was overheated, exhausted, irritated, filthy, sticky and sweaty, among other things.

And, as usual, he noted to himself that this probably wasn't the most healthy reaction for a man who'd just spent his working day slaughtering people. How would a normal person react? Nausea, rage, horror, even depression? Whatever he ought to feel, the fact was that he felt nothing at all. His chest was hollow with it.

In a few minutes, he could be done with all this for the day. Then he'd be back at the tents for a few slugs of vodka or a quick fuck to relax his muscles, and then he could flop into his bunk exhausted. With any luck, he'd manage to briefly block out the knowledge that in a few hours time, it'd be tomorrow morning and he'd be doing this all over again.

There was just one more task before he could clock off: he had to make his weekly visit to Knox in Research Camp 1K. It was messy, it was unpleasant, and he couldn't delegate it.

He'd turn up with two of his men, who would unload a cart full of charred corpses pulled from the rubble, and Knox would wander round them, chewing on the end of his cigarette and evaluating. Roy would stand about with his hood up to keep the early evening sun off his head, and wait for Knox to call him over to ask for something specific: deeper burns or a flash of something at a higher temperature. Whatever his research needed that week. Corpses start to stink fast in the desert heat. Knox didn't ever seem to notice. Maybe all those dead bodies and guts and formaldehyde had destroyed his sense of smell? Or maybe it was the cigarettes? Hughes always swore by them for blocking out your sense of smell and taste. Roy tried occasionally, but he could never manage to smoke one all the way through. Hughes ribbed him about it, but it was hardly fair; he spent all day inhaling smoke anyway, why would he want more?

As usual, Knox stood waiting outside his tent. Today, though, he was not alone. Next to him stood a man who looked to be in his fifties, dressed like some retiree tourist: long shorts, sandals with socks, a linen shirt, a shapeless fishing hat. He was holding a metal object in one hand, and for one surreal moment, Roy thought it was a camera. A visitor? Another doctor?

Roy stepped forward, and nodded a greeting to Knox. Knox grunted in response, and indicated the man with a jerk of his head. Apparently for him, this passed for a polite introduction. The man stepped forward, smiled and held his hand out for Roy to shake.

"Flame, right? Henry Katzenklavier - Chrysalis. I'm afraid either's a bit of a mouthful." His voice was soft, his manner rather academic, and his face quirky and immediately likeable: big ears, a mobile mouth, bright, clever eyes with deep smile creases round them.

The offered hand was a surprise, but a welcome one; these days, most people kept a certain distance from Roy until he'd pulled his gloves off, as if he'd fry one of his own company for looking at him funny. He couldn't exactly blame them, though. Lately, he was finding it increasingly difficult to be certain what he was capable of. Grouchy, Roy decided to test him. He didn't remove his glove. The man didn't show any sign of wariness or nerves. He shook Roy's hand with a firm grip and smiled at him warmly.

"What are you after?" Roy asked. He hoped it wasn't anything that would entail one of those long trawls through the bodies. It was the height of summer, and the heat was bad today, even this late. He really didn't need this.

Katzenklavier said, "I'm looking for testing material for this." He held out the metal object he was holding to Roy. Roy took it from him. Up close, it was a bizarre, beautifully made thing. It looked like a curled fist with too many fingers, or perhaps a silver spider lying dead in his hand. Roy pulled one of his gloves off with his teeth, and carefully manipulated one of the object's legs. It extended with smooth articulation, joint by joint. When he let it go, it sprang back silently. He was reminded, suddenly, of pinning down the legs of frogs for dissection. "What is it?" he asked.

Katzenklavier laughed, warm and self-deprecating. "Well. It's a weapon, of course. We're not in the business of dollmaking."

Roy looked again. Each of the thing's legs ended in a point that was slightly curved, like a fang, and very sharp.

It was pretty small, for a weapon. He tried to imagine what its use might be - or perhaps it was meant to be used in great numbers, like a hail of arrows? He remembered a nest of baby spiders he'd once seen in Master Hawkeye's garden shed, hundreds of them, swarming like a living blanket over their mother. He felt suddenly disinclined to talk more. He handed back the little automaton, then put his hood up and folded his arms, while his men unloaded the wagon and Knox began to make his rounds.

Katzenklavier didn't join Knox. Instead, he stayed over by the wagon, watching the men unload the bodies. Occasionally, he would stretch a hand out to stop them, inspect a corpse more closely, then wave them on.

The heat weighed on Roy; the dust and grease on his face itched. Knox called him over, to ask him to make a second degree burn to an unattached, nearly intact arm that lay in the dust. The fingers were loosely curled, like those of a person asleep. As Roy measured and snapped, he had the sensation of being watched. Sure enough, when he turned, Katzenklavier was looking at him.

Knox continued his inspection. Minutes went by. Roy sweated. A few flies gathered and buzzed. Then Roy became aware of Katzenklavier moving quickly, heard him shout to Knox, "Get a gurney!" Knox plodded off to the tent with an air of bad grace. Roy watched, mildly curious. Then he heard a noise from the wagon: thin, high and human.

Roy marched over. Katzenklavier was questioning the men, "Are there any more like this?"

"No," said the sergeant. "We pulled this one out of a collapsed wind tower. Guess he was a sniper."

"She," said Roy. He looked at the almost-corpse. Her clothes had been been charred to a few scraps; second- and third-degree burns covered most of her body. Her skin wasn't really skin any longer. She'd evidently protected her face enough to save her eyes. They were cracked open, but she didn't seem to be seeing much.

"Ah yes," said Katzenklavier. He pulled at a wrist. Bone showed. "Small hands. Very observant, Flame."

Knox showed up with the gurney and almost shoved it at them. Katzenklavier caught it neatly and started hauling the little sniper onto it with his hands under her shoulders. Knox didn't make a move to help him. Roy's sergeant took the sniper's legs and lifted her on to the gurney. She groaned, and seemed to come to life a little.

Roy followed them into the tent, wishing he'd hit the wind tower and finished her off properly earlier, and a little irritated with himself over the wish. Today he had made dozens of people die in agony and terror; it seemed a little hypocritical of him to balk at torture afterwards. Yet still, he found that he did.

On the floor of the tent was a cloth, and on it was written a formula. Roy had seen something like that formula written in a book once. Katzenklavier nodded his head at the array, jiggled his eyebrows and grinned at Roy, puffed up with honest pride. "What do you make of that, eh?"

How old was she? He couldn't tell much about what she'd looked like before he'd burnt her, but she was small-boned, her lashless eyes were large and round, and her coughs sounded high and childish. The bile still wouldn't rise from his stomach. His intellect reacted; his gut couldn't. He wanted to feel the horror and disgust through his whole body, but it only registered, quietly and numbly, in his brain.

Roy said, "You're going to put ... _her_ into the automaton?"

"I'm going to give it a go," said Katzenklavier jauntily. "We're aiming low at the moment. These things"- he waved the metal spider -"are designed for one use only, like little bombs. Of course, her body couldn't last long anyway" - he stopped himself. "So sorry, Flame. I shouldn't lecture the expert." Then he continued, warming to his subject. "Ideally we'd want a comatose subject - healthy body, damaged brain. That sort of thing. Not very easy to come by in wartime, more's the pity. If you could manage to find us a prisoner or two, that would be good. We use some oxygen deprivation when we get them. Sadly, since they've sent you boys out here, it's easier to find roasted bodies and much harder to get live ones." He shrugged apologetically. "Unpatriotic to complain, but I'm afraid it's slowing the research down."

Katzenklavier stood before him, gentle-voiced, affable, professorial, dressed in his ridiculous day-tripper clothes. Did he have the authority to do this? Did the brass know what his transmutations must involve? But of course he did, of course they knew. Roy opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. His head rang. He could see from the man's smile how badly he was giving himself away. He felt so exposed, felt a desperate urge to hide within himself. Someone like this shouldn't be able to see what he was thinking and feeling.

"Thank you, Major." Katzenklavier held his eyes, still friendly, unsurprised and mild, but something had shifted in his manner. It was a dismissal. Roy looked over to Knox, willing him, _say something, please, come on_. Knox had much more decency than he pretended. Roy had seen him do merciful things and had kept his mouth shut. Knox _owed_ him, surely he was going to say something ...

Knox didn't say anything. The look on his face was sour and indifferent.

Katzenklavier stepped forward, in between Roy and the sniper.

Somehow, that was it.

The next moment, Roy found he'd already stepped to one side and snapped a small, intense burst of flame at the girl's head and torso. Katzenklavier jerked and backed away rapidly. The sheets on the gurney caught. Roy fed the fire for a second, holding it where it was without letting it grow, encouraging it to generate some dark, poisonous smoke. The little sniper jerked and choked for a few seconds, and then stopped moving altogether. Roy held the fire where it was. Knox and Katzenklavier were rigid and unmoving at the periphery of Roy's vision. He heard Knox say quietly, "Careful." Roy wasn't sure whom he was addressing.

After a few more seconds, Roy stopped the oxygen abruptly. The fire guttered out. The sniper's face was a blackened mess now. Her hands, charred to ruin, were raised in front of her. The air stank of meat and grease.

Knox was suddenly by his side, handing him a bowl of water. Of course, the sheets were still smouldering. Roy spilled the water over them, and the embers died. Then he dropped the empty bowl on the floor and turned on his heel to give Katzenklavier a narrow, challenging, vicious stare. _You wouldn't dare write me up for this._

Katzenklavier was backed up against the tent wall, twitching like a trapped rabbit, but he was still smiling. "You can do that all day long and hardly get tired, can't you?" he said, gently. "That's why they work you so hard, keep you out in the sun, so you're too tired to think, too tired to be a little idiot about it. Your control is splendid; I'm glad I got the opportunity to see. Imagine what you could achieve if you stopped struggling and sulking like a brat. If you accepted this task with good grace, took all that research and skill as far as you could. What a scientist you could be ... " He shook his head and sighed.

The rage welled in Roy with breathtaking suddenness and force. It filled him right up, and it felt so, so good after all that _nothing_. He needed to leave, and now. The pressure was building up, and he knew if he could fight or fuck or get drunk enough to open the valve and let it hiss out of him, the release would get him a decent night's sleep. He needed it. He was a selfish bastard. He had to go.

Roy was out of the tent and a dozen yards away before he registered the final, fascinated look he'd seen on Katzenklavier's face. He heard Knox's mutter, echoing out into the red evening light as he walked away. "Stupid fucking kid."

***

  


  


  


***

There was a tap running. The building's old pipes groaned mournfully through the wall. For a few moments, Ed drifted in and out of sleep, feeling the edges of that dream tug at him: the faceless smile, white light, black tendrils, crumbling skin. He pulled away, and then found himself awake. He could still feel the freezing air of the Gate on his skin. Fuck, he hated these dreams.

Yellow light was seeping into the room through the half-open curtains as he leaned against the back cushion of the sofa. He must have fallen asleep in his living room again. No, wait a minute, he hadn't: the sofa he was lying on was made of worn leather, rather than sagging cotton - _oh hell_. He'd gone and fallen asleep in Mustang's library, hadn't he? That was what he got for accepting those painkillers; he knew the good kind always got him stoned. Mustang was going to give him so much shit about this. The situation called for him to go straight back to sleep until Mustang had left the apartment, but there was no way he was going anywhere near that dream again. Ed peeled his cheek off the sticky leather of the sofa cushion, buried his face in the wool blanket, and half-listened to the sounds coming from the bathroom next door.

Over the running water and whining pipes, he could hear the distinctly human sound of violent retching.

Ed sat right up. Mustang was _throwing up_? Was he sick? He listened again, and heard spitting, followed by the sound of the taps. No, Ed had been wrong, he was just brushing his teeth, for godsakes. Why had he even thought that? Gah. Ed threw himself back down onto the sofa and rolled onto his stomach, trying to get comfortable again. It was too late, though: his body had already decided that it was time to wake up. His back ached, his stumps throbbed, and his belt buckle was digging into his navel. And - yeah, this was great - he had morning wood too. Which, face down in his belt and pants, was seriously freaking uncomfortable. Ow. He rolled on to his side and undid the buckle and the top couple buttons of his pants. That was better, kind of. He really needed to piss. Fuck, Mustang must get paid a fortune, why did he have to have a little one-bedroom apartment instead of some huge townhouse thing with a million bathrooms? Ed listened again. The taps had stopped running. Awesome. No wait, there they went again. Crap. Ed listened for another moment. Oh hell, Mustang must be shaving, and he was probably going to take ages over it too, the fussy bastard.

There was a large potted plant by the window ... some kind of little tree. Ed was desperate enough to consider it. He could open the window after, maybe even do a quick transmutation so the room smelled like ozone instead of pee. But, in his current condition, it was going to be seriously challenging to aim into the plant pot without spraying everywhere. And there were notes and books all around the plant...could he clean it up afterwards with a transmutation? What if he hit a book? What if Mustang walked in on him? Fuck, he didn't even want to think about that.

Ed shifted uncomfortably around the couch. This was definitely not good. He tried to think of unpleasant and unattractive things. Requisitions forms, canteen food, Armstrong getting naked ... He seriously needed to piss. _Stop freaking primping and get out of the bathroom, you vain son of a bitch_. Ed's back and shoulder still hurt. At least that was a distraction. He reached his left arm around to poke hard at the knot just under his right shoulder blade. He moved on, hooked the fingers of his left hand into his automail port, wincing as he brushed a connection, and pressed at the metal brace, massaging it into his empty shoulder. It kind of hurt, but in a good way.

From the other room, he heard a voice call, "Fullmetal?" _Shit, shit, shit_. Mustang must have heard him moving around. Oh hell, what if he came in to check on him?

Ed froze in place. He didn't answer.

After a moment, the taps started up again. Ed repressed a groan. How long could it possibly take the guy to shave? Ed was sure he took about half this amount of time from start to finish. It wasn't even like Mustang could grow a proper beard anyway: he was all baby-faced. Ed bet he only had to shave like once every five days. Why the hell did it have to be today? Ed seriously, seriously needed to piss.

Okay, he could handle this. It wasn't like he'd never dealt with this problem before. At least this time he wasn't on a half-full overnight train, and Al wasn't sitting opposite snickering unhelpfully while trying to block him from view. He figured he could hold it a couple of minutes at least. He stood, slightly awkwardly, and tried a few stretches to get the blood flowing. Then he closed his eyes and observed his own breathing for a few moments: the pull of air down his throat, the slight ache of the exhale, the smell of coffee drifting in from under the door. Then he started breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, slowing it down more with each breath, concentrating on the sensation of his lungs filling steadily and completely from the bottom up. Damn, that coffee smelled good, he could go for some of that right now.

He thought of his teacher as she knelt in her front garden, teaching them this exercise: to calm the body, to lower the heartrate and to focus the mind. _Remember, with enough mental focus, the mind can control the body. Boys, this is going to come in very useful for you in a couple of years' time. Now, can either of you tell me the causes of penile erection?_ Absolutely fucking _mortifying_. Geez, at least this wasn't happening at her place.

Ed checked himself out again, and found his problem now substantially reduced. Whether it the breathing exercise that had worked, or just the traumatic memory, it didn't really matter; it was one less thing to worry about, thank fuck. Now he just had to wait until he could hit the bathroom. He quickly rearranged himself so that he was tucked away enough to pass, then did up his pants and looked over at the grandfather clock in the corner: ten past seven in the morning, AKA _way_ too early. Mustang was still in the bathroom, but in the meantime, perhaps he could investigate that fresh coffee he could smell. He might not be able to force much down until his bladder was empty, but coffee was good for the soul. Or, he could just grab his notes and run for the hills.

He weighed it up: caffeine, or get the hell out of here? Caffeine won by a hair.

Ed shuffled into the kitchen. Sure enough, the vacuum coffeepot was standing on a trivet, and the bottom chamber was full of fresh, dark coffee. Ed grabbed a heavy white mug and helped himself. It smelled amazing. Even the aroma seemed to get his brain working. He settled his butt against the corner of the counter, and took a small, appreciative sip. Coffee: it made so many things better. He was totally going to have to get one of these vacuum pot things, they made way better coffee than the percolator in his apartment. Plus there was the whole ceremony of preparing it - the double chamber, the beautifully simple distillation process. Boil the water in the bottom chamber on the stove, heat makes the water rise up into the top chamber just when it's the right temperature to extract the soluble components that give it the aroma, the taste, the all-important caffeine hit. Then, as the water cools, it trickles back down into the bottom chamber before the less soluble components can leech into the coffee and make it bitter. Elegant science, awesome results. He blew on the mug and took another sip. Now, if you were going to insist, the way the Xerxeans had done, that you needed to perform a ritual to put you in the right headspace before you did alchemy, preparing coffee in this way beat the hell out of bowing and scraping to some crazy fictional god with a lion's head. How cool would it be to invent something like this?

Through the half-open door, he saw Mustang walk past with a towel knotted around his waist. By the time he had registered the nakedness and the sardonic look, Mustang was already gone, and the door to the bedroom was clicking shut. Ed somehow managed to spill a bit of coffee down the front of his shirt in the process. Great.

It would be undignified to run. His cup of coffee was still mostly full; the manly thing to do would be to finish it up and leave at his own pace. Besides, he had something else to take care of. Ed put his coffee down and walked briskly to the bathroom.

Having gained blessed relief, he returned to the kitchen and relaxed with the steaming mug of coffee in his hand. Ed felt a hell of a lot calmer. He was only a few more delicious sips in when Mustang walked into the kitchen dressed in his uniform pants and shirtsleeves. Apparently, he was a quick dresser. Kind of surprising, especially given the amount of freaking time he had spent shaving. Ed would have figured him for the type to spend about about an hour messing with his hair until it was carelessly tousled _just right_.

"Help yourself to coffee, Fullmetal." Mustang's voice was soaked with sarcasm. So, he was grouchy first thing in the morning. That was less of a surprise. The openness of last night, whatever it had been, seemed to have vanished without trace.

Mustang leant back against the counter across from Ed, with the coffeepot behind him. He didn't look like he'd had a good night's sleep. His face was worn and bloodless, and there were bluish hollows under his eyes. Was he sick after all?

Ed decided to be generous with his concern. "You look like shit."

"And you look like you've got a cat on your head." Ed reached up and touched the inevitable, tangled puff of blond hair on the crown of his head, and felt momentarily stupid - why hadn't he done something about that? Mustang registered the direct hit with the flash of a smile, then continued. "I was up late. Havoc's identified our mystery alchemist. Henry Katzenklavier, the Chrysalis Alchemist. Heard of him?"

"Nope. No, hey, wait. He does biological stuff, doesn't he? Al and I nearly called on him this one time, like six years ago, but he and his wife were on some big trip to Xing." Which was a good thing, apparently. He and Al had run into enough creeps on their travels as it was. "What's his deal?"

"Golems."

"As in he actually _makes_ them, or as in he's one of those delusional idiots who think you can do it without human transmutation?"

"I don't know. He was trying in Ishbal, but I never managed to find out if he succeeded. It might well have been human transmutation in the end; I remember his methods seemed similar to yours - but - without the humanity."

Ed leant forward, gripping his coffee mug. "You mean he made _armour_? Like _Al_?"

"Not so much like Al." Mustang sighed, as if to say that it was too early in the morning for this conversation. If that's what he thought, Ed kind of agreed. "I'll leave a copy of his file in the library this evening. You and Alphonse should both read it. I'll trust you not to make assumptions about _The Perfection of Matter_ based on Chrysalis and his doings, but it's best you have the full story."

As the caffeine hit, Ed's brain was beginning to spark to life. He said, slowly, "The Immortal Army. Those were flesh golems. Was he part of all that shit? With, you know ..."- he put down his coffee, pantomimed spectacles with thumb and forefinger circled over each eye, and pulled his lips back in a toothy grimace. "That guy?"

Mustang snorted a laugh, but it was a bitter little noise. He rubbed a hand over his eyes tiredly. He evidently hadn't appreciated the reminder. "We couldn't pin anything on Chrysalis after the Promised Day. And believe me, I did my best. From what I know of the man, he would have been in his element - but it's possible they just never invited him to the party." Then he did that thing with his face that Ed had never quite worked out how he did: the shutters rolled down, and the conversation was over. Mustang looked over his shoulder at the coffeepot, then turned to the row of mugs stacked on the counter just behind Ed.

Ed realised a moment too late that he was blocking the way to the cups. Before he could step away, Mustang reached right past him and took one. The cloth of his right sleeve brushed Ed's left forearm. Ed was mortified to feel the hairs on the top of his arm prickle. He felt suddenly very aware of how much he needed to shower.

Ed buried his nose in his coffee mug. Next to him, Mustang turned away to fill his own cup.

On the street outside, a car rumbled by. A bicycle horn sounded. Ed heard Mustang take a sip of coffee. Out of the corner of his eye, Ed looked over and saw Mustang wasn't throwing the coffee down his throat the way he did in the office, but sipping it slowly, like it was some kind of unpleasant medicine.

Mustang turned, giving Edward a grumpy look through his bangs. "Another thing, Fullmetal. By the time I'm back this evening, I expect to see my library in a reasonable state. I let you use it as a favour, and because it's the safest and fastest way for you to get this book decoded for me - not so you could turn it into a chaotic, garbage-strewn extension of your student digs."

Ed felt some of his energy returning to him. "A _favour_? Like I'd want to hang around your creepy museum of a place if I had a choice about it. You've got me putting my back out working sixteen-hour days on this thing, and now you want me to do your freaking _housework_ too! Sorry that right now it looks like someone actually _lives_ here -"

"Right now, it looks like drunken tramps _live here_." Mustang's scowl dialled itself up a notch, and he turned his body to face Edward fully. "Most of those books are heirlooms. If they end up being chewed upon by the clan of rats you're currently advertising to with your sandwich crust and banana peel collection - then not only will you be answering to me, but the Major will doubtless be very interested to hear what's become of her father's books."

So his teacher had been Hawkeye's dad - and hey, look, they'd already reached the portion of the argument where they started threatening each other with her supposed wrath. That was much faster than usual. Ed shrugged, and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

"Clean it up, Fullmetal."

"Sure, _mom_."

Mustang sank down the rest of his coffee and stalked out. Edward sighed happily. Back to normal. Well, that was cool. The past few days of meaningful conversation had just been too damn weird.

  


***

  
Al was in the middle of his fourth slice of toast of the morning and was revising his third annoying entry from Powell's _Foundational Concepts_ , when the telephone rang.

He yelled to the next room, "Ed! I'll get it!" just to make the point that he was always the one who answered the phone first. Ed really ought to be up by now anyway. Then he jogged out to the hall and picked up the receiver.

"Hey," said Ed's voice, crackly and quiet through the old-fashioned handset. Wait, he wasn't home?

"Brother? I thought you were still asleep? You went out already?"

"Ah." Ed sounded like he'd been caught out at something. It was weird that Al hadn't noticed Ed sneaking out early: when Ed got up in the morning he usually clattered around enough to wake people in the next block. "Uh, no. I, uh, ending up staying over at Mustang's."

 _What?_ As in, on the couch, right? Why didn't he just come home? _No - no way, right? Right?_

Al tried to think of something to fill the ringing silence, and settled for the reassurance of cheap mockery. "You know, if you don't hold out until the third date, Brother, people are going to think you're easy." He could hear the hint of squeaky tension that had snuck into his own voice.

"I _fell asleep_ on the _couch_. Gah, don't even joke."

Al exhaled. That was the thing about Ed's amazing protestations, they made you unreasonably paranoid. He'd thought Ed had kissed Winry at least three times before it had actually happened, due to the fervent denials alone.

This whole Mustang thing was so weird. Ed and he were so alike in so many ways, and it was so funny how they both always seemed to fight against it. For years, Al had always thought, _put them in a room together for long enough and they'll end up getting along ... and Ed will have to admit he likes the guy_... Now, they'd put themselves together in a room, voluntarily. Technically, Al was supposed to be in the room too, but his own research kept drawing him away, and somehow it always seemed to be Ed who was relaying their findings to Mustang. It was also Ed who was coming home chipper and energised, talking up a storm about the research, and about the latest weird book he'd found in the Brigadier General's library, or the inner circle of the salamander array, and why vacuum coffeepots were awesome ... That was one of the things that made Ed such a great researcher, Al thought, attempting patience. When he got interested in something, he really knew how to obsess.

***

Before the security briefing, Roy managed to duck into the meeting room to get a quick update from Riza about their failed effort to find and question Katzenklavier that morning. It was hardly a surprise.

"Apparently," Riza noted, "he shut his house up and went travelling last year after his wife died. He has children, but they're claiming to have no idea where he is. Dino and Falman told me that the study at his place was half-empty. Wherever he went, he took several bookcases of research with him."

The implication hung in the air for a few moments. Katzenklavier was undoubtedly working, and he probably hadn't gone far. Riza hadn't met the man in Ishbal, and Roy had never felt particularly inclined to talk about him. She only knew him from their attempts after the Promised Day to collar the State Alchemists who'd conspired with Bradley and the creature who had controlled him. Now she stood by the window, self-contained and upright, if a little tired. She was still holding her left arm rather stiffly. She noticed him watching, and gave Roy a very small smile, acknowledging his concern and warning him off further attempts to fuss. Then for a moment, her eyes widened slightly, and a hint of sadness and affection crept into the smile. She was telling Roy she felt bad for him. He couldn't blame her. Edward had been graceless but right: he really was looking like shit today.

Roy moved on. "And I've just got off the phone with Patrick Dunleavy, who we can guess was conspiring with Flowers," he told her. "I warned him he was probably a target for the people who killed Flowers, and offered him our protection." Roy paused to observe her raised eyebrow. He answered her question bluntly, "And then he told me to fuck off."

"I suppose he thought you were just going to use it as a way to spy on him."

"I gather. Of course, that's going to make actually spying on him a lot more difficult. I've got Breda organising protection, and Madam Christmas handling the information-gathering. But it's going to be impossible to keep Dunleavy safe without proper bodyguards keeping him out of harm's way. I give him five days."

"Three," modified Riza.

It was a shame that they both had just enough remnants of good taste left not to make it a bet.

A couple of minutes later, every soldier from both Roy's office and Riza's was crowded into his. It was lucky for everyone that he kept an informal office, because there just wasn't enough space to stand at attention. Instead, officers and other ranks, according to their inclinations, slouched against desks or stood behind them. Riza stood to one side of Roy's desk. She didn't shout for order; she just slowly looked around the crowd, and, as if she was a conductor and they were her orchestra, they sank into silence one by one as she caught their eye.

"Until further notice, we're going to have a new security system in place. We're going to use the 'buddy system'. Most of you will know what that means. The combat zone here is Central itself, so the rules are slightly different. Each of you will be partnered with another member of the team. When you are outside Central Headquarters, you will need to take them with you at all times." She looked over the room again. " _No exceptions_. Dates and other liaisons do not count as exceptions."

There was a general, low groan from around the room which couldn't be traced to any particular person.

"Those of you who live in private accommodation can choose to either sleep in the dorms or sleep in the same apartment as your buddy." The murmuring groans rose again and then subsided. "Again, no exceptions," said Riza evenly.

She continued. "There are two points to this: the attacks so far have been opportunistic; they've taken place when personnel are alone and off-guard. Therefore, remaining in pairs will make you less attractive targets. It also means that if you are targetted, your chances of taking down your opponent will be greatly increased.

First Lieutenant Ross has a brief instruction sheet about how this system will work, and additional security measures you're to take at private places of residence. All doors and windows are to be closed and locked. Preferentially, you should be sleeping in a secure room with more than one means of exit. You and your buddy will also check in, as a pair, with 'base' before you leave Headquarters to inform them of your destination, and again after you arrive safely. From now until 1600 today, Lieutenant Ross will be 'base'. From 1600 to 2000, 'base' will be Captains Catalina and Havoc." There were a few good-natured groans from around the room. Falman rubbed a hand across his face, as though his eyes were tired. Roy looked across to Catalina and Havoc. As usual, you couldn't get a sheet of paper between them. He sat behind his desk in his wheelchair; she stood by his side, slouching slightly towards him. Her hip nearly brushed his jacket. They both grinned.

Riza's mouth twitched briefly; then she continued. "And from 2000 until 0900 tomorrow morning, 'base' will be Second Lieutenants Falman and Fuery. I'm leaving it up to you to assign yourselves partners. I'm trusting that we can all do this in a sensible and mature manner. I needn't remind you of how important it is that we avoid any fatalities. You will all need to tell First Lieutenant Ross who you've buddied up with by 1200. If by 1200 you do not have a buddy, you're to inform Lieutenant Ross, and she'll assign you one."

Warrant Officer Denny Brosch looked at Ross. Ross looked at Warrant Officer Julia Sullivan. Sullivan looked at the floor. Brosch looked at Sullivan, and then back at Ross. His ears went a tiny bit pink. Unfortunately for him, he worked in Roy's office, where this kind of embarrassing detail would be a well-worn joke to everyone present by lunchtime.

***

After a productive day's work of swapping notes with each other, annotating, debating and bringing their research together, Ed and Al had decided that it was time for a break to investigate life in the city beyond their living room and Mustang's library. Al wandered to his room and put on a clean shirt, a sweater vest and a blazer. He pulled a comb through his hair, and tried to get the messy bits on the crown of his head to lie down, and as usual, he failed. So he just ran his hand through his hair to try to do the cool tousled thing. He wasn't sure if it worked or not, so he just gave up and decided he was good like that. When he got back to the living room, Ed had dressed in what, to him, was appropriate clothing for going out on the town: boots, black suede pants, a faded dark t-shirt, a long black jacket, and a belt with a skull for a buckle. Al took a second look at the belt.

"Is that my belt?" asked Al. "Why couldn't you alchemise a dumb skull onto one of _your_ belts?"

Ed shrugged guiltlessly. "None of my belts had enough metal for the skull. What? It's badass."

The bar they headed to had a gramophone playing in the corner. Ed looked at him as they walked in the door, silently checking with Al that he would be okay with the extra noise. Really, Ed didn't have to do that anymore, but Al didn't mind reassuring him. Al sat at the table flicking through Ed's notebook while Ed went and got their drinks. They understood about half of the book at the moment, and Al was convinced they were on the verge of a breakthrough. Maybe they would even crack it tonight. Al could feel little sparks of anticipation rising from his stomach to his chest. They still didn't know what _takwin_ , the alchemical work that was the book's subject, actually was. Al was starting to come around to Ed's opinion that _takwin_ was likely to be something nasty enough that it should never be revived - yet still he was desperate to know. Whatever it was, the book made it clear that it was an ideal goal which was central to Xerxean alchemy, the way the Philosopher's Stone was to Amestrian alchemy. Of course, this wasn't a reassuring thought either in some ways, but to truly understand the principles of Xerxean science, to see alchemy through their eyes, even if he didn't like what he saw ... well, that was pretty tempting.

Ed was back with the drinks, looking triumphant. "Lambic beer!" he announced. "Apparently they make it in this one valley out West with wild yeast. The bar guy was explaining it to me."

Al took his bottle, tilted his glass and slowly poured. Ed just took a swig straight out of the bottle. Al sniffed. "It doesn't have actual lamb in it? 'Cause it smells like a barnyard." He tasted it gingerly, finding it sweet with a biting edge of sourness, fruity, and a bit musty. He was going to have to reserve judgement.

"Hey," said Ed, "It's chalkboard time. Let's see who's on tonight."

The bar they were in had only been reopened recently, but it was already a University quarter favourite. They specialised in two things: a huge list of bottled beers from all over the country (even abroad), and music. Nearly every night they had live bands on. The bar had a little ritual of only announcing the acts for that evening at 6pm on the day, so new bands would get as good a crowd as established ones. A lot of the music was pretty experimental, which meant that some of it was great and some of it was pretty hilariously dire. How long Ed and Al stayed this evening would kind of depend on which performers' names the barman chalked up on the big board by the bar.

Ed stood up and craned his head around to see what the barman was writing. After a moment, he jumped briefly in place and then sat down with a smug grin. "The Vortex are doing the early session." The Vortex, a favourite band of Ed's. There were eight of them, and they were definitely on the experimental side. Their set consisted of two sets of drums, an airplane propellor, three guitars with magnetic pickups that plugged into the electricity mains, a singer and a theremin. Al hadn't even known what a theremin was until he'd first seen them play. It was a little box that translated vibrations into eerie electronic noise. You played it by waving your hands around near the antenna. Ed kept threatening to get one; Al didn't have the heart to tell him that Winry had started playing a month ago and now regularly serenaded him down the phone with spooky oscillating noises.

***

"Safely arrived home, still not dead," said Falman, trying to keep it as brief as he could.

The phone was fumbled for a second, and then Catalina's voice came on, a little out of breath. "Awesome, I mean - _ooh_ \- I mean, excellent work, Second Lieutenant. Carryonbye." Click.

***

"Where are you?" pleaded Vanessa. "Why'd you do this to me at a time like this? Aren't I nice enough to you, sweetie?" She leant over the dressing table to look down the back, crooked her finger and made a wheedling noise.

Madam Christmas sighed and folded her arms. "Honey. You're talking to an earring."

Madeline popped her head around the door. "What are you yelling about?"

Vanessa looked aggrieved and waved a sparkly crystal clip-on the size of a chocolate.

Madeline looked over the dressing table, flipped open the cigarette box and pulled out the second earring. Vanessa responded with a squeaky little shout of triumph. "There you are, you little sneak!" She turned to Madeline, impressed. "But how did you know?"

Madeline deadpanned, "Because this exact thing happened last week?"

Christmas pulled the cigarette from her mouth, exhaled two little jets of smoke from her nostrils, and gestured at Vanessa. "Now honey, you remember the drill. This guy's a target. As much verbal info as you can get on the case, on his movements, on Flowers, then straight out you go. Remember you've got four of Roy's guys watching you. Don't leave the hotel with him if he asks. When you're done and ready to go, or if you smell any kind of trouble, then you head straight out to the car - and check the numberplate before you get in."

Vanessa took a silver cigarette case from her handbag and filled it. She muttered, "Politicians. Bet I end up having to climb down the fire escape again."

Christmas snorted. "This guy's a big old schoolboy, he's not going to give you any grief."

Madeline chimed in, "Political types are _easy_. Remember that General with the beard from the year before last, when we were looking into all that Promised Day schtick? I was all ready for the big routine, and then he just had me handcuff him to the bed. I spent the whole afternoon sitting in an armchair in my heels and skivvies, drinking coffee and reading the papers, and every half hour I'd just wander over, whack his butt with a slotted spatula, and ask him some compromising questions about his job. He loved it so much he tipped like a movie star, and I got so much info on the brass that I ran out of notepad and had to write all over the crossword section."

Christmas said, "Onwards and upwards, honey. Any trouble, you just flip the lightswitch in the hotel room on and off a few times."

"And if he tries to pull anything himself, you've always got this guy," said Madeline. She held up a lipstick case full of black pepper and shook it percussively.

"No problem," said Vanessa brightly and a little nervously.

Christmas eyeballed her. "It's just like I told you, hon. We'll look after you, but it's not a hundred per cent. You know the house rules: I never want you going into danger if you're not sure. You want out, I can still nix it."

"Oh no," said Vanessa quickly. "I'll do it. It's an important one, isn't it?"

Christmas beamed around her cigarette. "Atta girl. Just go on and do what you do best, and you'll be golden. You do well with this one, and I'll let you have the assignment at the races this summer."

Vanessa leapt up and hugged Christmas, barely missing her cigarette on the way in. "Mom! Thank you so, so much! You're the greatest!"

She let go quickly, grabbed her handbag and headed out into the hall and down the stairs.

"Knock 'em dead, hon," called Christmas.

"Remember to aim for the fleshy part of the buttock!" called Madeline.

***

Rebecca put the field telephone receiver down, and cracked up giggling. She was lying face up in Havoc's lap on the sofa, her crazy curls spread out behind her head. "Okay," she said, "Next time, you take the call and I'll just make squeaky little sex noises in the background." She scrunched her face up and tried some experimentally. " _Oh! Ooh! Yeah!_ " They were pretty good; they sounded a lot like her actual sex noises, which could have been a little worrying.

Havoc played with a curl. Becky was looking a lot better than she had earlier. He felt momentarily pleased at his good instincts: when he was feeling low, giving his friends shit usually put him in a much better mood. He felt warmed and happy to see that pranking was distracting her.

Rebecca frowned. "How many are we waiting for now?"

Havoc consulted his list. "Ross and Sullivan, and Miles and Hawkeye. Also Fullmetal and Al, but I'm not waiting up for those guys, they're never going to check in."

Rebecca put a finger to her chin. "Ross and Sullivan? Ross has been after her for like, months. This buddy thing is like a dating service." She stretched, then took Havoc's hand in both of hers and started playing with it, massaging the pad of his thumb. "Hey. When they've checked in, how long before you've gotta head out and hand over the field telephone to Fuery?"

"I'm supposed to be picking Breda up from his place at 2100."

"Cool." She stretched a little, then nudged his stomach with her nose. "'Cause all this fake sex is totally getting me in the mood."

Havoc stroked his other hand down her side to her hip. Becky wriggled unsubtly. Well, if that was what it took to cheer her up ...

  


***

  


  


  


***

Ed cracked open the bottle-top of his new beer on one of the ridges in his right forearm. He always did this with an air of satisfaction; Winry had hated it when he did that, and so it had been one of the many bad habits (flossing his teeth with loose threads from his jacket also came to mind) that he had made a point of resuming when they'd broken up. Of course, in this case it was a fool's logic: not only was Winry practically family, she was also Ed's mechanic. She was so going to let him have it when she had to file off all the little nicks he'd made in the alloy.

Ed hadn't asked Al if he was okay to stay for the band. Al was pleased; he wasn't always so great with crowds and noises, but he was getting better. Ed had picked up earlier that he was having a good day, and hadn't asked again. That was cool.

The band was good, Al had to admit it. You kind of had to be in the right mood for them, what with the harmonic electric howl of the guitars, the complicated rhythm of the two drummers, the guy spinning the airplane propellor so it whined and blew a breeze over the crowd, the mournful vocals and the girl playing the theremin with her hair ... it was a lot to take in at once. Ed, of course, adored them avidly and openly. He'd claimed several times recently that now he was a free man, he was going to romance the theremin girl. Al kind of hoped that it didn't happen. She looked cool, but a tiny bit insane.

They sat hopped up on the bar's windowsill; high enough up to get a good view of the little stage, but far enough back that they could talk normally, just about. Actually, with Ed relaxed and cheerful, maybe now was a good time to talk about _that_.

"So...have you thought any more about what you want to do after your contract's up?"

Ed took a swig of beer before responding. "Nah. I mean, before, I thought I was going to move to Rush Valley, and now that's not going to happen ... I dunno. I'm just ... thinking about this case right now. I thought it'd be good to do this one last thing right before I get out of the army." He turned to Al. "Can't I think about the rest after? I mean, we've got some money, I don't have to get another job right away."

Postponing difficult decisions, putting his head in the sand - it was great that after the Promised Day, Ed had finally had the opportunity to develop some vices, but this definitely had to be Al's least favourite of them. Hadn't he learnt yet? He'd refused to consider why it might be a bad idea to move to Rush Valley for Winry's sake even though he didn't want to, and look how ignoring that had worked out. Painful as it was, it was probably a good thing that Winry had called him on it before the move. But damn, it sucked that she'd had to. Or, more precisely, Ed sucked.

Ed had picked up on Al's silence, and apparently on the topic that lay behind it. He was peeling the edges of the label off his beer bottle with a fingernail, looking up with hints of guilt and sulkiness around the edges of his mouth.

Al settled for an indirect approach. Ed would know what he meant. "Okay, just ... do something you like, all right? Do something you want to, not because it's the right thing for once."

Ed shifted uncomfortably. "What about you? You work pretty hard, I mean, you were just supposed to be taking some university classes, but you're up all hours making notes and writing essays for that Mackintosh woman, and by the way, Teacher would _kill_ you if she found out you'd done the dirty on her and picked up studying with someone else."

And with that redirection, Al's spot on the moral high ground was lost. Instantly, his stomach was churning with miserable guilt. Not because Teacher would disapprove - although doubtless she would, and violently - but because Mackintosh knew what he was _really_ doing. Mustang knew. Half his university friends knew. But Ed didn't know. Al was so angry with himself over this. It might be a sin of omission, but the fact remained, he was _lying to Ed_. How could he? But every time Al tried to lead up to it, to talk about Xerxes, about their father, about the Promised Day, all the things that had set him on this path, Ed was ranting unstoppably within a minute. Al didn't doubt that he was really grieving their father, so he couldn't bear to push too much. Over the last couple of years, though, Ed had become stuck in his anger, like a scratched record. So the lie had grown around Al, and the longer he left it, the worse it got.

All this, and his poker face sucked - how did Ed not just _look_ at him and know? He must be seriously distracted by his own troubles right now.

"Teacher cut us off. I can do what I like. And I _like_ working hard, I like learning. I even like feeling tired. It's sort of a nice feeling, you know, that you've done a lot of good stuff and now your body's sleepy." Al smiled uncomfortably.

Ed seemed to pick up his discomfort, if not the source. He changed the subject. "So ... religious rituals as a means of describing transmutation formulae. For a bunch of people who thought there were only four elements, these guys were good at making things complicated."

"Don't you think it's kind of cool," Al asked, "that it means most alchemists must have just shared one code between all of them? I mean, they talk a lot at the university about modern alchemy really being a shared endeavour, but really most of it's garbage: everyone still keeps their secrets. In Xerxes science really was a shared endeavour, everyone worked together, they had the same goals, the same ideals. I mean, I know you get annoyed about how religious they were, but still ..."

"Uh, Al. They _killed themselves_ with their big 'shared goal.' And they kept slaves. What kind of ideals can you have if you do that? You haven't forgotten Hohenheim" - Ed would never say _Dad_ \- "started out as a slave, right?"

Al frowned. "Don't you think they got enough time to regret all that? These people died for me - for us - in the end. You know, it wouldn't kill you to be a bit kinder to them." He was trying again, attempting to lead the conversation up to a confession. "Don't tell me you're spending all day with your head in Xerxes and you're not thinking about it _at all_. I mean, this language, no one even knows how to pronounce it now, and our dad _spoke it_ , our dad's whole family." Ed was watching him now - Al could see he was getting somewhere. Should he back off and let Ed come to him, or press ahead? He pressed ahead. "I mean - our grandfather could have _written_ one of these books we're reading."

Ed frowned. His voice rose. "Slaves weren't allowed to marry. Rich people _bred them_ ; they got their servants pregnant and then sold off the kids as soon as they were big enough to fetch and carry shit. It's in all that big religious text thing, you know, _The Order of Daily Worship_ -"

"I know," cut in Al, "It's horrible, you don't have to go on to prove a point -"

"So our grandfather was a total dickwad. There's your answer." Ed's voice was getting louder with almost every word. "Apparently, it runs in the family." Ed hunched, and took a big swig of beer. Al realised he had probably miscalculated, yet again, and badly.

But he couldn't just leave it at that. "You know, it's more complicated than that. Dad didn't just leave for no reason, he -"

Ed's mood was darkening rapidly. "He made promises he couldn't keep. _Dickwad_." Al picked up on Ed's unspoken follow-up: _And so did I_.

Al was suddenly aware that the band wasn't playing any more. While they packed up their equipment, about ten people in the back row had turned around to stare. The brothers froze for a moment. Ed was waving his automail right up in Al's face.

Someone in the crowd said, "Cool arm, dude."

Ed glared. All ten students turned back round.

***

Roy got back to his apartment, late as usual, and alone. After a serious confrontation with Riza on the matter the previous morning, he'd managed to exempt himself from the buddy system. He'd argued that he was in no more or less danger than usual; these days anyone who picked up a newspaper knew who he was and what he stood for. He'd been taking the necessary precautions for ages, and anyone who tried to break into the Flame Alchemist's flat or find him in a dark alley would severely regret it. There was also the fact that he had a pair of human weapons spending most of their days camping out in his library: nobody was going to sneak a gas pipe under his door while he was away.

His trump card was that with her shoulder injury, she was in no condition to guard him properly. Of course, his real reason for the confrontation was that with her shoulder injury, he wanted her sleeping safely, not sitting up all night to guard him as he knew she would. He'd won the argument; she was safe in the company of General Armstrong's right hand man, and he himself could sleep better for it.

He called out a hello, because apparently he had a roommate now, but got no response. He tried the library door.

Inside, the room was empty, and - while not pristine - definitely tidy. The books were locked back in their bookcases, the scraps of paper which had carpeted the floor were gone. No banana peels, no food wrappers. No portable gramophone and messy stack of records. Even the floorboards looked clean. He crouched and sniffed the air: as he'd suspected, a lingering trace of ozone. Trust Fullmetal to take the scientific approach to dusting. Thank goodness the book cabinets were closed and locked when he did.

Even the desk was cleared, empty apart from a neatly squared-off pile of blank paper, placed dead centre with three freshly sharpened pencils placed next to it. On the top sheet of paper, placed precisely in the middle, was a single, browning apple core.

Because Edward wasn't in the apartment, Roy had the luxury of being able to laugh openly and loudly for a good few moments. Then he sat down at the desk, set aside the sheet of paper with the apple core, and picked up one of the pencils. This called for a really good comeback. Tired as he was, he was sure he could think of something.

Roy weighed the pencil in his hand, and put his head on one side.

The hall telephone rang. He sighed, and jogged out to get it.

It was his mother.

"Kid," she said. "Get the hell over here, now. We've got a problem."


	6. Spare the Excuses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the truth finally surfaces, and various people wish they could just drown it again.

Breda and Havoc sat in a dark car, parked in a dark side street, watching a dimly lit townhouse window. From the distance, they watched two figures moving about the room. There wasn't any spicy stuff happening, mind you. No, that would be way too interesting.

The plan for the evening had involved them parking outside a nice hotel inside of which a contact of theirs was apparently busy extracting information from a drunken member of parliament. Ross and Sullivan were also inside the bar in case of trouble. Breda had been in a sulky mood all night. Havoc suspected it had something to do with the fact that a mere twenty yards away was a bar full of expensive booze, a pretty spy, and two attractive colleagues who might possibly kiss in front of him. Havoc, while in the same boat, was going home to a bed containing a pretty brunette wearing absolutely nothing. That kind of took the edge off things. It was probably better if he didn't point this out to Breda, though, especially because he'd recently taken to stuffing an envelope in his jacket and claiming it was a 'TMI jar outpost.' Havoc had instead alternated between putting up with him and goading him. Then the evening had gotten a little more eventful.

Their contact, Vanessa, had been briefed thoroughly: _Patrick Dunleavy is almost undoubtedly a marked man. We can only guarantee your safety here; do not leave the hotel with Patrick Dunleavy_. So then Vanessa had, of course, left the hotel with Patrick Dunleavy.

By the time Ross and Sullivan had gotten outside, Vanessa and Dunleavy were already hopping into a taxicab. Ross jerked her arm at the departing cab and tried to turn it into an innocuous looking wave. Havoc picked up the hint and they pulled away to trail the cab discreetly to Dunleavy's townhouse. Breda had even remembered to say, "Follow that car!", an essential part of any tailing operation.

And now, the evening was once again becoming less eventful. It seemed the previous bit of excitement, like the feminine silhouette that occasionally appeared in the townhouse window, was a tease that was going nowhere.

Breda tutted. "For the love of god, stop _fidgeting_!"

Havoc bristled. "I'm not _fidgeting_. It's a medical thing, you know I have to raise my butt off the seat every so often-"

"Uh, no, you keep flicking the lid of your lighter. How is that _medically necessary_?"

"I just really want a smoke, and I can't have one without the light giving us away! Damn. You know, I totally forgot how much stake-outs suck."

There was a short pause. Then Breda said, mournfully, "I'm _starving_."

Havoc spread his hands. "Dude, if you'd remembered to get us food-"

"You said you were going to pick something up on the way! You forgot and now you're putting it on me!"

"I did not forget! _You_ said _you_ were going to pick up cheese fries with bacon from Kenickie's on the way to our rendezvous point -"

"Do not say _cheese fries with bacon_ , you're making it worse." Breda paused for a beat, and then sniped, "Can't believe we're on a stake-out in a red car-"

"On a moonless night, in a dark street, and this isn't exactly the only red car in the city. This is a _great_ car for the job: it's fast, it's manoeuvrable, and it looks like it's from a spy movie. What we have here, my friend, is your continued sour grapes that I won't let you drive it."

"You know you're just using the hand control thing as an excuse to stop me getting my hands on your pristine baby. How hard can it be? The accelerator's like a motorbike throttle, right? I can ride a motorbike."

As if that was that.

"Okay, for like the fiftieth time, motorbikes have foot brakes and gear shifts. What _you_ used to ride was a scooter. No gears, teeny tiny engine, not a motorbike. And _this_ "- he waved expansively - "is in no way a scooter. It's _my_ beautiful, insanely expensive souped-up sports car -"

"I could show her a real good time, you're just worried that I can give her what she needs better than you."

"Pfft. You drive like my grandpa. Who's dead. And who drove a donkey cart."

Breda gave the explosive little sigh that he always used to signify _whatever_ and also _I am losing this argument so I will now change tack and get you back later, once you've let your guard down_. "Hey, we should let the Chief know what's up."

"Yeah." In fact, they really ought to have done that by now. "Ross and Sullivan must have called in and told him this chick left the hotel-"

"Or maybe they're too busy making out in a dark corner -"

"You are so, so bored. This is what happens to your imagination when you survive on a bunch of one-night stands - not all of them, by the way, peak quality goods."

"How quickly he forgets," said Breda acidly.

"Geez, and here I'm trying to be a considerate friend! You need to let go of the fantasies and get out there, man. I could get Becky to fix you up with -"

" _I'm going to call in from that phone box over there, okay_?" Breda really had it in for him now, Havoc could see it in his eyes. If they went for a post-stakeout beer, it was definitely going to be one of those times that Havoc would have to assess whether vodka shots had been snuck into his pint mug.

Breda pulled out his gun, checked that the street was deserted, then hopped out of the passenger seat and walked off briskly. Havoc fingered the sidearm lying in his lap. This was either going to be extremely dull, or one of those missions where things go a little bit off-plan, and then a lot. It would hardly be a surprise if someone tried to get the jump on them right now -

From somewhere ahead, there was an explosive popping sound. Gunfire, or just a car backfiring? Havoc looked in the direction of the townhouse: a small figure was running down the fire escape steps that led down the back of Dunleavy's building. Havoc squinted at it. That had to be the girl. His second guess looked to be right, then.

The side-street was barely lit, and she would have had no idea that he and Breda had followed her there in the car. He watched her sprint closer, barefoot with her high heels in one hand and a bag slung across her shoulder. He scanned the empty street. No visible pursuers, and no Breda either. He brought his gun up, ready to open the door and fire if he had to. Should he whistle? Wave at her? Fuck it. When she was a few metres away, he flashed the lights once. She slowed down and her saw her eyes flick down to the numberplate. Sensible girl. Then she was belting over to the passenger side and throwing herself into the car.

She doubled over and wheezed, clutching the bag, and without even asking her he started the car and went to pull out.

The girl's head popped up and he half-saw her turn big, curious eyes on him. "Hey," she said, grinning, "It _is_ my lucky night after all."

The glass of the passenger window shattered.

She screamed like a B-movie heroine. Havoc lost a precious second to his useless instinct to slam his foot down and floor the gas. Then he turned the throttle quickly and smoothly and let up the clutch lever, spun the wheel and was out of the side street in a screeching fast trail-braked turn that made the air smell of rubber. He turned onto the main boulevard with no time to look or stop. A big car and two motorcycles swerved to avoid him. As Havoc climbed up the gears and cut rapidly through the lanes of evening traffic, he was followed by a trail of colourful blasphemies and obscene hand gestures. He registered that Breda had been back on the corner, and had started at them in utter shock. Good. He'd know something was up and have time to get his gun out and be ready for trouble.

The girl - Vanessa - was still ducking down, head on her knees. Oh hell, was she shot?

"You all right there?" She made a little squeaking noise. "Uh, if you're not doing anything, could you check to see if either of us got hit?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vanessa pop her head up in surprise. Good idea, keep her busy. She was supposed to be trained, but she seemed pretty panicky, he really didn't want her to do something dumb like jump out of the car.

The girl checked herself over shakily, picking bits of broken glass off her skirt and out of her hair. Then she leaned over and checked Havoc out. Kind of literally checked him out, looking him up and down with big eyes and a sneaky little smile. She smelled like perfume and sweat. It was a measure of how doomed he was that the combination made him instantly think of Rebecca.

Further down the boulevard, the traffic thinned out as they headed further out of town. Havoc took a good look in the mirrors, then let himself relax a little. He flicked his eyes over to Vanessa. "So ... I take it someone got into the house?"

She nodded. "Dunleavy's shot. He out was in the hallway, I just hopped straight out the window. I think the guy must have already been in the house, actually. It seemed like he was waiting for us."

Through the rearview mirror, he saw a metallic flash from the side of a car, an arm extending from the passenger window ...

This time, he went straight for the gas the right way, opening up the throttle and shifting over into the fast lane. Behind them, shots cracked. The girl screamed and ducked again. Havoc pushed up the speed and shifted briefly into the slow lane to overtake a car which was failing to exceed the speed limit. The little sports car was roaring so hard it rattled the fixtures. He'd never taken her quite this fast before. Air whined through the tiny gaps between the convertible roof and the frame. And there was that feeling of calmly buzzing energy in his chest, the runner's high. They were in serious danger of dying here, but he was grinning like a madman.

He'd got a quick look at that gun under the streetlights. 9mm or .45, the old question. If he was right, and this was a little 9mm instead of a big pistol, then right now they wouldn't be able to get an accurate shot. Although there could be more than one gun, and more than one gunman. He could gamble it and rely on getting far enough ahead of them, but then this was a straight road, heading out now through the villages that had been absorbed into the city's edges and into the open countryside. It would be difficult to shake them.

Okay, then. It'd have to be the other option. Breda was going to be so pissed. He glanced at Vanessa. She had a death-grip on the edges of her seat. She really didn't look up to what he was about to ask her. "Hey," he said, trying for reassuring. "There's something I want to try. Hopefully get us out of this mess. I need your help." She nodded vigorously. "Okay, in a minute I'm gonna ask you to hold the throttle here and the wheel. When I tell you, put your hands next to mine and I'll let go once you've got it. You're going to have to hold on pretty hard, but it won't be for long. Just stay calm for me."

She nodded one more time. Right. "Trial run," he said. "Take the wheel." She reached out with her right arm and held it steady. He let go and quickly wound his window down with a few turns. Her hand was shaking already, and the car was starting to weave a little. It'd just have to be good enough.

Havoc throttled off and dropped back gradually. The road was nearly deserted now, which was going to make this simpler. With any luck these guys wouldn't be checking their speed, and just think they were just outpacing him. As they started to shoot again, he wove in and out of the lanes. Two guys in the car. Crap. But only one of them, a stocky bald guy on the passenger side to the left, was shooting right now, leaning awkwardly out of the window and shooting right-handed. He had an advantage there, but it was going to disappear as soon as he put his plan into action. There'd be no time to reload either. This had to be done fast.

He wove into the slow lane and throttled off again. As he dropped back rapidly towards the pursuing car, he shouted, "Now!" Vanessa leant over and he felt her little hands come around his just before they drew level with the bad guys - then, leap of faith time. He let go and grabbed the gun from his lap. He turned and braced his elbows on the window, left palm cupping his right hand, and popped off a couple of shots. The passenger returned fire. No time to duck, so he just had to tune it right out. He got off two more shots. Then another.

Then, abruptly, the other car ploughed straight across to the other side of the road. He must have hit the driver. As the car receded rapidly in the rear-view mirror, he saw its headlights spin as it hit the ditch and flipped right over.

Havoc reclaimed the throttle and wheel from Vanessa's shaking arms, then sucked in a long, deep breath. "Thanks," he said. "You were great."

Vanessa looked up from rummaging in her handbag, gave him a hysterical little smile. "Wow" she said, "thank _you_." She inhaled deeply. "Some evening, huh?" She yanked out a long, silver case and flipped it open. "Smoke?"

***

Roy really should have had breakfast before this breakfast meeting; he didn't have nearly enough caffeine or blood sugar in his system for this.

He was sitting at a large, round table laden with food, documents (and documents with food on them) in a private room of his foster mother's half-decorated new bar. At the table were Madam Christmas himself, Vanessa, Riza, Major Miles, and Havoc. They were debriefing after Vanessa's information-gathering session the previous evening. He'd been running the meeting - for the first thirty seconds, at least. Then his mother had told him he had crumbs on the corner of his mouth, handed him a napkin, and while he dabbed and felt like he'd instantly shrunk a foot or two, she'd blithely taken over. It had all gone downhill from there.

"In my house," said Madam Christmas emphatically, "we do not have this kind of - what was the word, sonny?"

"Clusterfuck, Mrs. Mustang," said Havoc helpfully.

"Clusterfuck!" she said, rolling the word in her mouth. "Kind of figures the army would have to have a word for that. Vanessa, honey, you want to explain what the hell got into you last night?" Just like her to save the really humiliating questions to ask in public. Roy didn't feel too sorry for Vanessa, though. It was probably going to be his turn in a minute.

Vanessa fiddled with her necklace and looked vaguely as though she was considering bolting. "Calculated risk?" she said hopefully. "Look, we needed someone to turn over his townhouse at some point, I still think you should have just broken in while I had him at the hotel."

"Because I said no, that's why," said Roy. God, he sounded about sixteen. He really should have got the family stuff out of the way first. Riza had seen it all before, but he could already see Miles weighing his technique for handling family against Olivia Armstrong's doubtless more authoritative stance. As for Havoc, he was enjoying this far too much. Roy tried again. "I already offered Dunleavy protection and had him curse me out down the phone. If his house got burgled for compromising documents, who do you think he'd blame? I could start a civil war right now by stealing Hakuro's spot in the elevator - do you think I really want to do something that'd turn the whole of Parliament - by the way our allies, we're trying to build a democracy if you feel like keeping up - against me?"

"Roy's right and you're wrong," said Madam Christmas to Vanessa. There we go, that was that then. She gestured with a cigarette. Whenever he went home, Roy found it difficult to get used again to the whole smoking at mealtimes thing. Then she turned to Roy and jabbed the cigarette at him. "Kid, your sister just risked her life for you. Show some manners."

"Thank you, Vanessa," said Roy. Fuck the coffee, he just wanted to go back to bed. "I really appreciate it. And thank you, Captain Havoc, for bailing my sister out of her own idiocy." Vanessa narrowed her eyes. Roy resisted the urge to stick his tongue out. Instead, he retrieved a cardboard folder from where it lay dangerously close to a pat of butter. "Speaking of idiots, I'm still rather impressed that Dunleavy was stupid enough to keep all his correspondence about this in his house. He even had carbon copies of his own letters to Flowers."

Riza said, "Well, it's good practice in general. If you did that, you might remember what you've said more often."

"Yes, but my point is -" Oh great. She was winding him up. Wasn't she supposed to have his back or something?

Vanessa said, "What gets me is that he had them all stashed in the hidden drawer at the back of his writing bureau. I can never believe how many people do that, it's kinda like having 1234 as your safe combination."

"God bless dumbasses," said Christmas, "for they let us get the job done in half the time."

" _Anyway_ ," said Roy - oh hell, was Miles ever going to obey an order from him ever again after this? - "he's documented it all so well that we pretty much know everything now. It turns out Flowers found out about _The Perfection of Matter_ and Katzenklavier's research when she overheard a conversation in a private room of the Marchmain Club."

"The Sellers Room?" said Christmas. "Did she sneak into that little cupboard in the next room where you can hear every damn thing through the panelling? Takes me back."

"Apparently listening into conversations there was a habit of hers and some of her allies in the Progressive Party," said Riza, furrowing her brow. "A lot of politicians and brass are members, Flowers and her friends used to keep tabs on who was meeting there in the hope of picking up something useful."

" _Katie_ used to do that?" said Havoc, shaking his head. "Man, I still can't believe she was screwing us over. I thought I knew that girl."

"Really?" said Riza. "She always struck me as rather cunning."

Right, that really was enough. Roy threw a very sharp look around the table. He got silence, and a chastened look from everyone except his mother. She raised an eyebrow approvingly.

Feeling a little more like himself, Roy began again. "The conversation Flowers heard was between Henry Katzenklavier and a middle-aged soldier she didn't know, about the progress of his research. She heard enough to guess that it was a member of the old guard, though. _The Perfection of Matter_ was mentioned. She looked it up and discovered the book was banned, and at that point she went to Dunleavy. Dunleavy had missed his chance at the big time, and it seems he thought of himself as her mentor, and he was helping her climb the greasy pole. She was aiming to be party leader. Anyway, it seems Flowers then visited most of the city's alchemical booksellers trying to find her own copy. She only managed to buy a copy two weeks before she was murdered."

Miles glanced over. "Sir?" Funny how he always asked before speaking. You could tell the Briggs bunch apart in the office by their strange lack of insubordination. "Did Dunleavy's letters tell us what they planned to do with the book?"

"Funnily enough, yes," said Roy dryly. This part really wasn't funny. "Flowers was convinced that the soldier she heard speaking with Katzenklavier was old guard. She and Dunleavy were planning to threaten Hakuro to expose publically that his faction were sponsoring illegal alchemy. They were going to blackmail him in return for political concessions. This book is very, very illegal. She may not have known what Katzenklavier was doing, but just the fact that it's taboo would be enough in the current climate to turn the tide against Hakuro. So: the short version is that the concessions they were hoping for would mean that if I managed to edge out Hakuro for the Fuhrership and start instituting democratic reforms, they'd have enough clout to push for fusion of powers."

Madam Christmas snorted explosively. Riza's lips thinned; she knew this already. Everyone else around the table just looked blank. These people had all plotted revolution with him, weren't they supposed to be a bit better informed about political theory? He was sure he'd had this conversation with Havoc at least twice over the years.

Riza came to the rescue. "We're aiming towards a presidential democracy - that's separation of powers. The president is in charge of the economy, the military and state bureaucracy. Parliament makes the laws. The Progressive Party is with us on this, but apparently not all of them agree on it. Flowers and Dunleavy were aiming for a parliamentary democracy instead - that means that Parliament would make the laws, run the economy - and they'd be in charge of the military."

"It's bad because it looks like Flowers and Dunleavy thought they had a lot of Party support. Our allies aren't exactly our allies anymore. We're trying to reform a whole state, to stabilise the country. We can't do that without a solid power base, that's half the reason I didn't just take the Fuhrership straight away as soon as I had the chance. If the reformers are divided between a lot of little factions jockeying for power and backstabbing each other, the whole of Amestris is going to suffer for it. We could lose everything."

Vanessa spoke up. "And it's bad because Dunleavy wanted you dead. He said so in the bar, he was drunk off his ass. He said he was going to see you strung up, and -" Oh. That. Vanessa had trailed off. Roy gave her a wry smile. She was still an idiot - but yes, his mother was right. She'd risked a lot for him.

Havoc said, "Whoa, now. I'm not denying the other stuff, but Katie definitely didn't hate the military _that_ much. She lived with Rebecca, they'd been friends all their lives, and I know we both had arguments with her about political stuff but - there' s no way."

Roy shrugged. "We don't know how far Flowers agreed with Dunleavy there. Unfortunately, we also don't know whether Flowers had actually got to the stage of blackmailing Hakuro's people. If we knew she had, that's be enough evidence to get them in trouble. But it's just as likely that Katzenklavier caught wind of her sniffing around after the book, had her political background checked out, and guessed the rest."

Havoc checked his watch, then raised a hand. "Chief, guys, I gotta go in a minute. I'm meeting Vikus Weaver -"

"The guy who runs Weaver Freight?" cut in Christmas. "Now there's a man with fingers in too many pies."

"That's the one. He's called in a couple of favours" - Havoc pulled a face - "and I think he's found out which gang Katzenklavier's hired for all these hit jobs. But I just want to tell you now, I pretty much know what he's going to say. Falman called me on the field telephone at home just before I came here. They identified one of the guys from the car, and he's one of the big hitters in the Luttenberger gang."

Madam Christmas took a pull on her cigarette. Vanessa's eyes got very round. The Luttenbergers were one of the big names in organised crime right now. Damn. Well, they had known these people were professionals, it was bound to be something like this.

Roy turned to Havoc. "Right, get anything else you can from Weaver, and let's discuss this further in the office." Havoc nodded. He pulled out from the table, gave Roy an informal salute, pivoted and left.

Roy continued. "They've attacked two of my subordinates now. We can justify moving on them openly without connecting them to Hakuro's faction. We'll cook something up for now, but I'm not letting this go on any longer. Major Miles, I want you to start drawing up names for a mission team. We're moving on them in the next twenty-four hours." He turned to Riza meaningfully. "Major Hawkeye, you're injured, I'm keeping you on the bench."

Riza locked eyes with him for a second, then blew a breath out quietly and said, "Yes, sir."

Well, there went one piece of the puzzle. Of course, once they managed to take down the immediate threat to Roy's team, they'd have to turn to the far more disturbing problem of the root cause of said threat. Katzenklavier was almost undoubtedly working for Hakuro's old guard - but what the hell was he trying to do? Something taboo, according to the Elrics, and clearly something so important that it justified the risks of using hired assassins to target Roy's people. It never damn well stopped, did it?

***

Ed woke up swearing. He felt the rage and the horror and the sickness, he yelled, threw a desperate punch at nothing - and then he was in his own bed, in his pigsty of a bedroom in the little flat in the university quarter. Light was seeping through the thready curtains. Already, he could barely remember what he'd been dreaming about, but it wasn't difficult to guess. He cycled his shoulder a couple of times to loosen the tension.

Al's voice called sleepily from the next room, "Brother? What is it?" The connecting wall was so thin that they often had entire conversations through it. This was great those times when Ed couldn't be bothered to get up, and substantially less great those times when Al brought a girl home.

"I'm fine, Al. Go back to sleep."

There was a muffled response from the other room. Ed rubbed a hand over his face and then caught sight of the culprit of his nightmare: his notebook, still open on the coverlet. He must have fallen asleep while he was reading. This _takwin_ thing - human transmutation or not, spending all day with it, immersed in Xerxes, was starting to fuck with his head. He was trying to understand a civilization that had invented the building blocks of modern science, but thought nothing of treating people like cattle; treatises on morality that casually talked of experiments on slaves, bribes for angry gods and alchemy that killed a whole people. Shit, at least his father had given a crap when you came down to it, more than you could say for any of the assholes that had written these books ... fuck it. He needed coffee.

A few minutes later, Ed sat at the little fold-out table in the living room, a chipped mug of coffee cooling in his hands, and freezing air and blinding white light filling up his mind.

 _His father had stood between him and the Gate. Voices poured from his skin. Ed looked through the whiteout all around him, but he couldn't see Al. His father said, "I'm so proud of you both." The voices shouted to Ed in a language he didn't know. His father said, "Can you understand them? They're your people, your family. You two are what's left of them." He was talking to Al, too. Where the fuck was Al? Ed looked around again anxiously, and when he looked back - oh fuck - those long, thin shadows were pouring out of the Gate, too fast, inexorable, reaching for him._

A clatter sounded from Al's room. Ed looked around the living room, dazed. Shit. These memories, these flashbacks, they weren't normally this bad, were they? This vivid? Not since the first time, not since Mom ...

 _He took a step back instinctively, uselessly putting his arms up in a fighting stance. He went to shout a challenge, to bargain or to protest - but the whips of black light weren't reaching for him at all. Instead, they were wrapping themselves around his father's limbs and face and body, thready and questing like the roots of a plant. In a hundred places, the tendrils of shadow were pushing into his father's skin. They were worrying him into fragments. And - oh God - his father was smiling. Smiling and saying something Ed couldn't hear, and the voices inside him were sighing and disappearing, popping like bubbles one by one._

There were noises from the tiny kitchen: Al clanking dishes, a kettle filling with water -

 _\- and Ed was holding his little brother, impossibly tiny, skinny and cold in his arms. A painful, heart-hammering chemical high was slamming through him. Al pointed a shaking, twiggy arm at Ed's own Gate. Ed looked across to it. In front of it, the Truth was standing, the creature made of light wearing Ed's own arm and leg, grinning at him horribly through the last of the dust that had been his father, through the last of the whispering voices._

 _The Gate, the Truth, said, "Come and get it, alchemist." It stretched its arm - Ed's own arm - out to him, tauntingly._

 _Ed looked at the Truth, looked towards the moment that their quest would be finally complete, held out before him. His whole body buzzed and crackled with anticipation. Part of him wanted to howl with grief, another part to scream with triumph. Carefully, he let go of his brother and stood. Hohenheim's dust streamed silently through the Gate in helix spirals. Ed watched it go, and the horrible mixture of feelings and sensations in his chest intensified. But he was only one move from checkmate: in this final moment, his first thought was practical. Had his father paid the whole of the passage fee? Was it enough? Ed took a step forward. The grin widened, split the Truth's blank face. Ed took another step forward - and then something inside him recoiled hard._

 _He stopped._

 _He said, "I know you, you son of a bitch. What's the catch?"_

 _The Truth said nothing. Ed's stomach rolled. He whipped his head around, and saw Al standing shakily behind him on thin legs, smiling hugely, alight with hope and love, wishing him onward. And behind him, Al's own Gate was swinging slowly open._

 _Gently, it stretched out the first, slim tendrils of undoing to Alphonse's neck._

 _NO._

 _"No! You can't have him!"_

There was a warm hand on his shoulder.

"I said, do you want some oatm - _hey_. What's wrong?"

Ed looked up at Al's freckled, square-jawed, worried face, so different now from the starved boy he'd shielded in his arms as they fell away from the Gate into nothing. Ed just shook his head. "I'm - fine." He felt oddly distant from his own voice. He pinched the skin between his left thumb and forefinger, hard. The pain woke him up a little.

"Do you feel sick? Did you have a nightmare?"

Ed took a gulp of cold coffee. His stomach recoiled. "The second one."

Al said, "Mom, or the Promised Day?"

"Second one."

Al sighed and flopped down in the other chair. "Yeah. Me too. You know, you've actually got a point about this book. I mean, I still think it's fascinating, but - it's really creeping me out now. I keep wondering if ..."

Ed nodded, and made an affirmative noise in his throat. He said, "No oatmeal. Thanks. I'm gonna go take a shower, then I'm going to head to Mustang's and get to work. Coming?"

"Yeah. We can pick up some pastries on the way, raise our blood sugar levels."

"Cool." Ed nodded again. "Let's crack this fucker open."

***

***

A movement made Al look up from his work at the library desk, and he realised three things: that Ed had stood up, that it was three o'clock already, and that his eyes were aching from staring at the book's tiny print for so long. Al glanced from the clock to Ed. He was stretching, his right arm locked straight across his chest and his left curled around it, pulling it in towards him. His nose was scrunched, his mouth pulled down into a painful line. Al watched him for a moment, then said, "Your shoulder's bugging you again."

Ed pushed his bottom lip out, shrugged briefly, then winced.

Al pressed on. "How long has it been like that?" Ed didn't respond. "You're due for an upgrade. Wasn't Winry going to remodel the shoulder brace to distribute the weight better?"

Ed shrugged again. The corners of his mouth turned further down.

Al sighed pointedly. "Brother - you need to call your mechanic. Yeah, even though she dumped you." Silence. "Brother - it's _Winry._ Our Winry. You think she'd want you suffering like this?"

Ed snorted. "Probably."

Seriously, Al could kick him in the shin.

He settled for pointing his pencil accusingly. "Brother - you really are an ass, you know that? _Of course_ Winry wouldn't want you in pain! Sure, I wouldn't blame her for kind of wanting to hurt you right now, but seriously, what's got _into_ you? Her and Granny are our family. It's not some girl you met, it's _Winry._ Do you _really_ think you're never going to speak to her again? Are you going to trade _mechanics?_ 'Cause, I know you're dumb, but that would really be ..."

" _Shut up!_ " Ed dropped to the floor and sat cross-legged among the papers, his hands pushed into his hair. "Of course I'm not cutting her off! Of course she's family! What kind of douchebag do you think I am? But what - you think she wants to _speak to me_ right now? Geez, you think I don't know I'm a dick? Look, everything I say right now just fucks things up worse. Can't I just _leave it?_ Just for a while?"

"'Leave it'?" repeated Al derisively. "You 'left it' for months on end with the Rush Valley thing and look how great that turned out. The lesson, brother, is that if the conversation sucks now, it's still going to suck if you put it off for six months. Look, I know how crazy you were about each other, and how serious you were, and I know how awful you both feel that it didn't work - because guess what, I get to listen to both of you telling me you feel like crap. Just man up and speak to her now, okay?"

Ed said sourly, "I just - want - to leave it. Stop nagging me to do it 'cause it'll make _you_ feel better."

Al rubbed the back of his neck with two fingers - then realised he was fiddling with his scar there, tracing the old lines of the blood seal.

Ed watched him. A little silence settled between them. Then Ed said, quietly, "I'm okay with this. We made a promise, remember?" Oh. He meant about the automail.

It was true, they had made a promise. Ed had forced him to it a week after Al had woken up in his own skin. No more quest, no attempts to get back Ed's arm and leg. They were done. Al had been desperately angry at first, but even with the amount of sleeping he'd been doing those few weeks, it hadn't taken him long to think it through. He'd seen - reluctantly and unhappily - the sheer relief coursing through Ed right then, how much he needed Al to let him close the book on their quest. And so Al had let him. What else could he do? But it felt so unfair. And worse, it felt like giving up. Al still got angry about it sometimes - angry with Ed for quitting, angry with himself for letting him, angry with the universe that Al had to owe so many people his life, but Ed especially, to owe what he could never pay back.

Ed said, "Look, I've said this before. I can live with it. I don't have anything to be ashamed of now, and that's - a lot for me, you know that. Gambling you wasn't worth my arm and leg. You're alive because I knew when to quit for once."

Al twisted his crossed legs. "We don't know that! That it was going to kill me. Why would take my whole body just for your arm and leg? You're allowed to sacrifice things for other people, but you don't want anyone to risk anything for you."

"Bullshit. You know that thing as well as I do, you know how the Truth works. It would have been all _hey, I'm gonna hang onto your lungs, you cool with that?_ It was going to leave you in pieces, _you know this_. You just don't like that I did this for you, but you know what, it was my choice, and if I can live with it, you can just fucking deal."

"Brother - I got my body back, you didn't. I'm fine and you're not. How do you _expect_ me to feel about it? I promised to leave it, but you can't make me promise to feel good about it."

"Oh, for - just stop with the guilt, Al -"

"You're telling _me_ to stop with the guilt? Geez, how do you think I felt, when I was in the armour you were giving me the miserable puppy face five times a day. You think that was fun for me?" And now Al was being an ass himself, and he knew it. But he was so _angry_. "And don't lie to me about whether the automail bothers you, don't try to pass it off as if it's nothing. It's not gonna work on me. I sat next to you while you were sleeping every night for years, remember?"

"Okay, _fine_. It's a pain in the ass. The stumps hurt, the ports itch, it gets freezing in winter and I have to wear long sleeves in the summer so it doesn't fucking roast me. Half my limbs can't feel a thing, my back's always full of knots, and I'm fucking sick of people who try to shake my left hand because the automail creeps them out. And you know what? It's worth it, it's fucking worth it, Al, because if this arm was human you'd be dead twice over. It sucks, and I can deal with it. And that's all."

Al stared, and then sighed. Then - what else could he do? - he changed the subject. "Did you get to the part here where they describe the goal of _takwin_? I had it as "the creation of new life, that it might whisper the secrets of the gods to us."'

Ed said, "Yeah. There's just no way that's not going to be bad. A new creature, that's going to whisper secret knowledge into their ears? You know what that sounds like?"

It was a rhetorical question, of course. Al knew.

***

So, Mustang wanted to speak with her privately in the meeting room. Weird. Rebecca mentally filed through her recent indiscretions. She'd been arriving at work pretty much on time, despite feeling like crud on a daily basis. She hadn't cheeked anyone that she could remember. She hadn't snuck off with Jean for an alleged coffee break in a while. Admittedly she had been a bit distracted as of late, what with everything that had happened. God, had he noticed that she was spacing out all the time? She really didn't need this on top of everything else.

Mustang pulled out a chair and sat cross-legged in it. He motioned her to sit with a gesture that managed to be both brusque and pompous at the same time. Geez, she felt like she was being kept behind after class in school.

"Captain Catalina. You probably know by now that Captain Havoc's identified the Luttenberger gang as Katzenklavier's heavies. They're behind the assassination attempts. They're based out of a strip club down near the East Canal, and they conduct business overnight, so we're raiding it at 5am tomorrow. It's an official matter, no need to hide our actions. They tried to assassinate Major Hawkeye, that's reason enough to justify taking them down."

Rebecca took it in. She knew Jean's news already, of course, and all morning she'd been been wondering if she'd be assigned to the mission, and feeling weird about the prospect of getting justice for the friend who'd fucked her - and Mustang, and the whole team - over so badly. She was definitely on the team if Mustang had taken her aside to brief her on it, unless she'd totally lost her lid lately, and he was specifically briefing her to keep her _out_ of it? She didn't know what to think anymore.

"Major Hawkeye isn't fit for combat at the moment with her shoulder. Major Miles is leading the operation, and he's suggested two teams. I want you leading the second." Rebecca felt herself react - but had no idea what her reaction actually was. Was she supposed to be happy? Pissed? She tried to keep an unreadable expression. Her unreadable expressions, however, typically sucked ass. Why was he briefing her on her own? Was something - oh, just look at him with his eyes all squinty. Something was up, all right.

"Major Miles will be briefing you fully at 1500," Mustang continued. "That isn't why I called you here." Suddenly his eyes widened, and he'd turned the full-beam headlights on her. She resisted the urge to squirm. "I called you here," he said, "because one of these people murdered Katherine Flowers. You already know this."

What the hell was he getting at?

Mustang ploughed straight on. "I chose you to back up Miles because you're the best person available for the job. There's a good chance you'll be in combat with the person who murdered Ms Flowers, whoever he is. What are you going to do?"

 _Shoot his kneecaps out, shoot his balls off, make him bleed and panic and piss himself and scream_ \- shit. Where had that come from?

"Uh, my _job_ , sir. What are you getting at?"

There was a short pause, throughout which Mustang favoured her with a freezing cold stare. Rebecca half-expected him to chew her out for insubordination. It was bound to happen one of these days. The stare didn't let up. Fuck, didn't he need to blink or something? Somehow, the brigadier general didn't look like his smirking, jackass self any more. For once, he actually looked like someone who had taken down a government, someone who'd incinerated poor fuckers by the hundreds back in the day. Damn, it actually sort of looked good on him.

Well, Rebecca wasn't made of iron. She blinked first.

Then Mustang said, slowly and carefully, "Tell me that you know that, in front of Katherine Flowers' murderer, you will continue to do your job. Tell me that you'll stay in control of yourself."

Why the hell was it even Mustang, not Miles, who was asking her this?

"Can I ask a question first, Sir?"

Mustang shrugged a 'yes'.

"Sir, if you're so concerned about whether my personal connection to Katie Flowers is going to cause problems here, why have me leading Team B, why have me on the mission at all? I _know_ I'm the best person for this job - but there are lots of others who could do it okay. If you reckon I might screw up, why not just pick one of them?"

Mustang gave her the wall-face. "Do you want to be taken off the mission, Captain?"

"No, Sir." How about that? Now she thought about it, she really didn't want that.

"Would you have volunteered for this mission?"

Would she? God, that was a question all right. Katie had died because she was betraying Rebecca, betraying Jean, trying to get one over on Mustang. If she hadn't died and Rebecca had found her out, their friendship would be pretty damn over, she knew that much. But did it erase everything from before?

Katie had died because she was too fucking curious and stubborn and ambitious, because if you dangled something like that in her nose, she'd have to take it. She could never leave anything alone, she just had to keep prodding at things, ever since they were kids.

Katie had died because some douchebag, alchemist freak ordered her death. She'd flipped through Katzenklavier's file: well, Bradley had been a monster himself, so she guessed it made sense that he'd be inclined to hire alchemists who thought it was fun to make monsters.

Katie had died because some fucking rat of a human being from the Luttenberger gang put two bullets in her chest. Jean had told her all about the Luttenberger gang before. They were asshats, the lot of them. Two of them had been shooting at her boyfriend's car last night, another of them had tried to murder Riza - stupid idea both times, fucktards. Were they running through a list of all her favourite people or something?

Katie had died alone in a bathtub filled with blood, scared and in pain, and Rebecca hadn't even been in the room to take her hand.

The silence in the room suddenly became very heavy.

Rebecca met Mustang's eyes. "Yes, Sir. I wouldn't have hesitated to volunteer."

He pinned her with the full beam headlights again. That look was full of intent, purpose, was supposed to say something, but what the hell it was, she really couldn't tell. She got that he'd put her on the mission deliberately. She got that he was onto her and that he suspected correctly she was out for revenge, but ... wow. It just really wasn't like him to indulge his subordinates like this.

"What are you going to do?" he asked again. That line was getting old fast.

"I'll do my job, Sir. I'll stay in control, and I'll do my job." She tried to school her face into something that conveyed coolness, restraint. "You can rely on me." She'd do her job, damn sure she would, but if her job was taking these guys in, and they happened to put up a fight? Well, if she managed to get her hands on the guy who'd shot Katie, her report was definitely going to state that he put up one hell of a fight. Guess she hadn't written off Katie after all.

Then the headlights were off, and he stood up and said, briskly, "Right. You're leading Team B. Miles will fill you in on the rest." Did he actually buy it? Was her poker face getting less sucky? "Don't let Havoc get you drunk tonight, you've got an early start tomorrow."

"Roger that, Sir." She thought about giving him a cheeky, grinning salute, the way Jean always did, then quickly thought again. Still, that was weird, she thought as she followed Mustang out into the main office. She almost felt like she owed him one now. He gave her the mission, he cracked a joke. Was he warming up to her charm? Was he getting sentimental?

She quickly stopped herself from wondering too much on that one. Who ever knew what the sneaky bastard was thinking?

 

***

 

The front door banged shut and Ed startled out of his daze. He'd been so engrossed in the translation that he hadn't heard the key turn in the door. Unless? Spending too much time around here was making him paranoid. "Al?" he called out.

"It's me," came Mustang's voice from the hall. Was it quitting time already? He glanced at the clock in the corner: just before eight. Huh. No wonder Al had been so insistent on going out to grab them some food. Now that he thought of it, he was starving. Ed rubbed a hand across his face, and then looked up to see Mustang leaning against the door frame.

"How's progress?"

"We got it," said Ed. He kept his voice casual for maximum impact.

"Already?" Mustang started forward, eyes wide, frowning. He was such an easy mark. "Why didn't you -"

"Ah-ah-ah." Ed raised a finger. "We cracked the code this morning, but we're only halfway through the translation. We were going to keep going this evening. We reckon we could have it done by midnight. Al's just out picking up dinner."

"What do you know so far?" Mustang was stalking forward, eyeballing him. Ed shouldn't take advantage so much. He had good reason to worry, after all: Hawkeye getting shot, that Katzenklavier dick, Hakuro's faction probably sponsoring a bunch of taboo alchemy ...

"Well, we still don't know what _takwin_ is. The preamble's mostly mystical crap, just tells us that it's the most amazing, powerful, blah blah blah. Same junk everyone says about their special hobby horse. When we get through translating the ritual into actual science, we'll know what it's supposed to create."

"Couldn't you just skip to the end part?"

"We tried already. As far as we gather, it tells you how you're supposed to use whatever it is you've created. But it's too vague to make an accurate translation without already knowing the ritual. We're just going to have to slog through it in order until it's done. It's definitely to do with creating some kind of - thing that's alive, though." Mustang opened his mouth again, but Ed saw the question coming and just talked over him. "We don't know yet if that means human transmutation, but it's starting to look nasty. Give us the rest of the evening. We'll get it done for you."

"Right." Mustang folded his arms again, took a breath, and let it out. "I'm going to take a shower. Then I want to take a look at what you've got so far." He paused, looking directly at Ed. "Can I?" Politeness. From Mustang. It was kind of great how alchemy put them on an even footing like this.

Ed glanced through his notebook. His handwriting looked fairly legible, and there weren't any obscene or embarrassing doodles in the margins. "Yeah, go for it."

Mustang nodded and turned to go. Ed dove back into his translation so quickly that he didn't even hear him leave the room.

A few pages of translation later, Ed heard soft footsteps, and looked up to see that Mustang had returned from his shower. He was out of uniform now, his hair towelled off but still hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes, wearing dark slacks and, of all things, a t-shirt. So weird to see the guy in normal person clothes, instead of the uniform or some annoying fancy suit thing.

Ed said, "Yo," and held out the notebook.

Mustang took the book, perched on one arm of the sofa, and flipped it open. His eyes flicked rapidly over the first couple of pages. Then he suddenly grinned and huffed out a short, brusque laugh. Ed realised with a little burst of smug pride that he'd just reached their first real discovery about the book's coding.

Mustang sank down onto the sofa cushions and began to read through the notebook closely. He was soon deep in concentration, leaning his forehead on one hand and pushing his bangs out of his eyes. There was a little scatter of five o'clock shadow along his jawline. He hadn't bothered to shave. Seeing Mustang like that, easily reading his personal code out of his personal notebook, really ought to make him feel tense as fuck, but somehow his alchemist's secretiveness was edged out by the thrill of this new form of showing off. Ed watched Mustang's reactions, increasingly fascinated. He had never seen the man absorbed in theory like that before. His whole face seemed to gradually change as he got more into it, to grow more relaxed, even oddly guileless. After a while, Ed could even guess which passage Mustang was currently reading from the little expressions flitting across his face.

It was funny how people always seemed to look their best when they were absorbed in work they cared about.

Ed froze.

 _Oh, hell no._

An electric jolt of shock reverberated through his body. _No, right?_ he asked himself desperately. _No way?_

But it wasn't a no. It was a yes.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked; Mustang flipped over another page. Ed stood stock-still, and tried to suck some air into his chest. He had just caught his own delinquent brain in the act, and it had no excuses to make for itself.

Carefully, he stepped backwards. He picked up a very large reference volume from the floor, dropped to sit cross-legged, and hid his face in it. Behind this barricade, it was a little easier to think.

A substantial part of Ed's mind was squirming and desperate to bolt. _Yes_ , he thought, trying to be tough with it. Only trouble could come of not being honest with yourself, he should have learnt that by now. If he'd been honest with himself ... well, for a start, he would have seen the Ling thing coming, and then later on, he would have got together with Winry like a year sooner. And then, later still, maybe they could have even talked properly about the differences in where their lives were going, instead of ... well, what was done was done. He knew that too. _Man up, Elric_ , he thought to himself. _Yes, you did. Go on, think it_.

He'd just kind of - checked Mustang out. No - no excuses - he had, he definitely had. Gah. For sure. Definitely. _Gah._

 _Had_ he definitely, though? Could he have just misjudged his own reactions? That was possible. Totally possible. A good scientist knows that you need to test a hypothesis more than once, and that you need to try to prove yourself wrong to know for sure that you're right. Cautiously, Ed raised his eyes above the top of the book. Mustang was still concentrating completely on the notebook, frowning as he scribbled a marginal note. Ed flicked his eyes over the man, giving him a quick, experimental once-over, then ducked back behind his book. As he stared blindly at the page, an after-image of Mustang's lean, slouching body floated briefly in front of his eyes.

Goddammit.

Ed repeated the experiment, this time looking Mustang up and down more slowly. He tried not to let previous results bias his interpretation of the data.

Out of uniform, Mustang looked different. You could see how he was built, the shape of his body. It was a pretty good shape. He was kind of smaller than he seemed in uniform. He had broad shoulders and big hands, and so that made him look bigger in the boxy uniform jacket - but in the thin t-shirt he was wearing now, you could see that he was mostly lean muscle, not bulk. He looked compact and strong, and his torso was kind of like an inverted triangle - broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, muscles that cut beautifully. How the hell did he get like that working behind a desk? Bet he hit the gymnasium on the sly and then pretended it was all natural, the vain fucker.

Ed's cheeks felt hot. Worse still, there it was: an unmistakable pang of sensation in his belly and groin.

The results were in: Ed's brain hated him.

While Mustang read on, Ed attempted to regroup. It was just a look, he chanted to himself, just looking. He was making a big deal about something that didn't matter a damn. If Mustang was some random guy or girl on the street or in the corridors of Central HQ, he'd just check them out, enjoy the eye candy for a moment, then move on and never think about it again. So he looked at the guy once. What was that? Nothing.

Okay, maybe more than once.

An insidious voice spoke in his head: _when did this start exactly_? Awareness was crawling through his brain that this may not have been the first checking-out of Mustang that he had ever done. A slide-show of memories flashed behind his eyes ... Mustang halfway through a fight in uniform and greatcoat, doing his dumb, awesome, badass pose with one hand in his pocket and the other out and snapping, calm as you like, flash-frying an army of monsters like it was nothing. Behind his desk, swivelling around in his big office chair, chin propped on one hand, staring Ed out from under his bangs with sharp, slitted eyes and a maddening smile. At the wheel of his car, elegant and worn in his civvies, steering competently while he talked, turning to Ed and saying, " _no, it was 520, don't cheat me_."

When had it started? Ed didn't really know, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Didn't matter, anyway. He just needed to pin this thing down and move on. One thing he knew for sure: this wasn't serious. The guy was good-looking, so what? It was just an observation, it didn't change anything about the way they were with each other. This wasn't a _crush_. Right?

Okay, Ed thought, time for observation again. What did he actually think of Mustang, really? Well, he was probably the most irritating man on the planet, that was a start. He was smug, he was sarcastic, he was patronising, and he thought he was hot shit. He was private and guarded and paranoid as fuck. He was self-controlled to the point of weirdness and it clearly took a lot to make him lose his shit, but when he did so he was fucking scary. He put on a big show about not giving a damn and treating his subordinates like slaves, but the minute someone tried to hurt one of them you could tell from his reaction that they were family to him. His alchemy seemed flashy and simple, but Ed had come to realise that there was a hell of a lot of control and precision behind the flash-bang, and when you actually talked theory with Mustang he was sharp as a tack. The more you got to know him, the more of a puzzle the man seemed to be. Ed liked working out puzzles.

In fact, Ed was - okay, he could admit this - despite Mustang's many, glaring flaws, he was kind of starting to like the guy. But that was all right, wasn't it? A lot of Ed's favourite people liked and respected Mustang: Al, for a start, Hawkeye, Havoc and the rest of the team, even Winry. So, it was officially okay to like Mustang, even if he was still an annoying bastard, which he was. Stamp of approval.

But - definitely not a crush. Ed knew what a crush felt like. The way, years ago, he used to get all idiot around Winry, to fixate goofily on dumb little details, like the way a few long strands of pale hair would always escape from the front of her headscarf and tickle his skin when she leant over him to work on his arm. Mustang wasn't making his stomach flip or turning him into a drooling idiot. He was just interesting and annoying, and, incidentally, unfortunately kind of hot. That was all.

Why did the fact that Ed had noticed he was good-looking have to make any difference at all? It didn't. He bet Mustang checked out everyone he worked with. He was a procrastinating pervert, it stood to reason.

More importantly, it was safe to look, because there was absolutely, totally no way this was ever going to go anywhere.

Right on that last phrase, _go anywhere_ , Ed got a brief, vivid mental image. Stupid brain. The point was, it was all cool. Ed was really glad he'd had this little talk with himself. He could look if he liked, nothing was different now. Just as long as Mustang didn't figure it out. The man's ego totally didn't need feeding.

No problem.

***

***

Ed seemed like he was in a weird mood all evening. Al couldn't blame him. The more of _The Perfection of Matter_ they got translated, the worse it looked. By ten o'clock, the translation was close enough to be nearly guessable. Unpleasant speculations swirled through Al's head. He didn't share them with Ed; he knew Ed was thinking the same things. Mustang kept hovering. Every few minutes he'd pop into the room, look over one of their shoulders or flip through one of the notebooks, then huff, or make a strained face, and stalk out of the room. Al still couldn't quite believe Ed had told him the code. It was a sensible move, it was just that Mustang wasn't ever previously known to bring out Ed's sensible side.

Ed looked up from his seat on the sofa. "Hey, Al, did you remember to bring that copy of the _Companion to Late Xerxean Hermetics_? I just want to check this part against it." He looked around for Al's book bag, and spotted it on the floor a few inches from his foot.

"I'll get it!" Al cut in. As he looked at Ed's reaction, he realised he'd spoken too quickly, or too nervously, and Ed was now looking at him with frank suspicion.

Before he could make a move, Ed pulled Al's bag over by the strap and dumped the contents out onto the rug. He brushed Al's keys and a couple of candy wrappers off the notebook with Al's revision notes in, picked it up - _oh shit, oh shit_ \- and then put it to one side. Al felt bad. Had he really thought Ed would just snoop through his notes? Ed picked up the reference volume he'd been looking for and laid it down in his lap. He started leafing through it. Al felt his chest expand rapidly with relief, and tried not to sigh audibly.

Then Ed stopped. He reached over to the other reference book that had been in Al's bag. It lay on the rug surrounded by old receipts, pencil stubs and metro tickets. He picked it up. Al felt himself freeze up again.

Ed said, slowly, "Powell's _Foundational Concepts_? Why have you been looking at that, you know it's crap."

Al said, "Oh - you know, some of my friends at university are using it." He could hear how squeaky his voice had gone.

"It's a crib sheet. Half the definitions are bullshit, the only reason anyone ever reads it is because it's the sort of stupid soundbite you have to write out for the State Alchemist Exam -"

Al interrupted, "I know, but this thing - hear me out," but it was way too late. His voice had cracked on the last word, and finally betrayed him.

Ed was staring at him, eyes huge and round. His mouth hung open. The hand with the book hovered in mid-air.

Then he frowned so aggressively that Al was sure he was about throw the book or maybe a punch, and he growled, "You _asshole_."

For a moment, Al reviewed a roster of the many miserable, panicked responses he could have made. _I didn't mean to lie, let me explain, I've got really good reasons for doing this, you made it so hard to talk to you_. But Ed was right: he hadn't told the truth. He was an asshole. So he just sat there, ready to take his licks.

Ed said, low, gravelly, and sour, "You're taking the State Alchemist exam."

"Yeah."

"You're going to join up?"

Al said, smaller, "Yeah."

Ed stood up, and for a moment Al thought the fight was starting. Then he just shook his head, said, quietly " _Fuck_ ", and was out the library door in a second. It slammed so hard a bit of plaster cracked.

Ed's footsteps sounded loudly and rapidly down the hall. Then the apartment's front door slammed too.

He stared down vaguely at the sentence he'd been translating. Al had lost his last chance to be honest. Ed had found him out.

Then, suddenly, the sentence came back into focus. Al read it through again. And again. Oh, _shit_.

He heard footsteps, and looked up to see Mustang leaning in the doorway, looking at him ironically. "So. I take it that Edward now knows you're planning to become a dog of the military. How did that go?"

"Uh. Never mind. This -" He motioned to the translation. Al couldn't get his mouth to move fast enough. His tongue felt thick, like it was getting in the way. "It - _takwin_ \- I -"

"Alphonse, take a breath and try again." There was a testy edge to Mustang's voice.

Embarrassment brought Al back to himself. He tried again, slower. " _Takwin_ \- it's the creation of true artificial life."

Mustang frowned. "True golems? Not - well, made with humans?"

"You mean, like I was in the armour? No. Not golems. Homunculi."

Mustang's chin jerked up. Suddenly the wall-face was gone completely and he was staring at Al with open, fierce horror. He said, slowly, "The homunculi - Envy, Lust, Bradley, the rest - they were made by that creature, right? _From_ him, from parts of his Philosopher's Stone."

Al said, "Yeah. And where did _he_ come from?"

Mustang sat down suddenly and heavily on the sofa. He ran a hand across his face. "From Xerxes, with your father. Some kind of alchemical experiment ... oh god. Is that what this is?"

Al just nodded. "Yes." The clock ticked on for a few seconds. Mustang hunched forward, his face shaded in one hand, apparently chewing it over. Al bobbed from one foot to the other. This was turning into one hell of a crappy evening.

Al said, "The method in _The Perfection of Matter_ \- I'm fairly sure it'd work. I think this is how they actually did it. The original homunculus. This is how Father was made."

"They're actually arrogant enough to do it ..." Mustang had looked up, but wasn't really looking at Al, just staring into the middle distance. "The idiots! They're trying to make their own, aren't they? They're trying - oh hell - they're trying to make their own Homunculus. For what?"


	7. Go Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rebecca shoots from the hip, and Ed mans up.

The book was so tiny that it fit neatly into the palm of Roy's hand. It was incredibly old: crumbling leather binding, delicate pages, crude ancient printing, and so tinder-dry that a single spark would be enough to incinerate it. It was only five inches by three, and yet its words had destroyed an entire civilisation.

Roy had owned this book since he'd inherited Master Hawkeye's library at nineteen years old, and in that time he'd barely glanced at it. For all these years, he had worked next to it, eaten and drank next to it, unaware.

In all the world, there was nothing so dangerous as knowledge.

The homunculus, Father, had been so impossibly hard to kill; it had taken so much. How could anyone even contemplate making another? Did Katzenklavier even know what had happened on the Promised Day? Was it possible that someone could know what the Xerxean homunculus had been, what it had done, and yet still want to make another like it?

But of course it was.

***

Rebecca flew around the bedroom in a manic, naked blur, wet hair flying everywhere. Somehow, she managed to locate her current target: a clean pair of socks that actually belonged to her - moving in together had left them with serious sock-mixing issues. She pulled them on and moved straight on to searching out the next thing on her list.

"Bra, where's my bra?" she chanted.

"Lampshade." Havoc pointed to it helpfully.

Rebecca turned to stare. "What's it doing th - oh, yeah." She grabbed at it, then tossed it over to the dresser, where it hung off a drawer knob. "No, no, I need the one I wear for special ops." _Huh?_ "You know, the smooshy tight one that makes me all flat?" Oh, _that_ bra. What was the point of bras that made boobs smaller and less jiggly?

Rebecca scanned the room, bouncing on her heels, which was all kinds of distracting. Havoc furrowed his brow. Becky in a morning rush was hardly new, but it wasn't like her to be so crazy nervous before a mission. Was it bad that despite this, he was still kind of enjoying the naked Rebecca show?

Havoc tore his gaze away and looked around too. Wait, was that it?

"Drying rack in the corner?"

Rebecca looked where he was pointing, and then shouted "aha!" She sprinted over and snatched the bra in question off of the rack. After successfully squashing her tits with it, she grabbed a black thong from the drying rack and pulled it on. She always claimed those butt floss things were comfortable, which didn't sound so likely - a string of lace up your ass, seriously? - but hey, if she liked them, he wasn't exactly going to stop her.

Her black combat pants and polo neck were next: special ops essentials. Rebecca pulled her big hair brush through her hair a few times to try and tame it, then pulled it back tightly into a pony tail. As she did so, she fumbled the hairband twice and swore.

That was that, he was getting up to help her. Rebecca turned around just as he was transferring to the chair, and groaned, "It's not even five! C'mon, Jean, it's the middle of the night, it's bad enough that _I've_ got to be up."

He flipped the brakes off and waved a hand at her. "It's cool. It's not like I was going to sleep with you turning the bedroom upside down and cursing." Then he headed through to the living room, leaving her to it.

The car hadn't arrived yet, which was good. Miles was a decent guy, but he also seemed like the type to send the car ten minutes early and then chew you out for not being ready to roll. Outside was the quiet and blue light of the very early morning. An urban fox barked a couple of streets away. Havoc unlocked the gun safe in the corner, and grabbed Rebecca's holster and her sidearm. She'd had to write 'R' on the underside of the barrel with white-out so she didn't get it mixed up with his. Then he reached in and thought, _okay, why not_?

A couple of minutes later, Rebecca banged through to the hallway and pulled her boots on. Havoc was waiting for her with a pile of useful items in his lap. He handed them over one by one: silencers, sidearm and waist holster, then large-calibre pistol and shoulder-holster, and finally rifle and strap.

"I checked 'em all out for you, you're good to go." Rebecca took the rifle, then turned it over in her hands and looked at him quizzically.

"You never let me take your rifle out on a mission before." This was true. His rifle was a really beautiful gun, nearly the nicest thing he owned, ranking just below the convertible and neck and neck with his expensive custom sports chair. Havoc very rarely let anyone else lay a hand on any of these three, but - well, Rebecca's rifle had really started to stick lately. She needed to upgrade. He didn't want her going out in the field with anything but the best.

He didn't say any of this. "Well, you know. Enjoy the smooth action."

"I always do." She wiggled an eyebrow at him. Even this nervous, it seemed that she couldn't let an innuendo slide. Sometimes it just seemed like an automatic response, like maybe she'd had Special Ops Training in being a guttermind. He liked that about her.

All strapped up, she gave him a twirl. "Sexy ninja?"

"Definitely. Wait, are you wearing the invisible lipstick?"

Invisible make-up: one of the great mysteries of Rebecca. She spent half an hour applying it every morning, and after much scrutiny Havoc had managed to work out that it made her look like a very slightly neater version of herself without make-up. The invisible lipstick was a case in point: painstakingly chosen to exactly match the shade of her lips. Why spend half an hour covering your face in something that looked exactly like your face? Rebecca claimed it was like war paint, and that it put her 'in the zone', however that was supposed to work. He thought she was gorgeous without it, and he told her so whenever she was about to make them both twenty minutes late for work again.

When she puckered her lips proudly to show she had indeed applied some, he handed over his final item. It was a banana.

Rebecca snorted, then stuck it in her belt and whipped it out like she was pulling a sidearm. Then she waggled it at him and asked, "No, really. Why?"

"Seriously. You shouldn't go out on a mission with nothing at all in you. I'd always skip breakfast and then be starving half an hour later -"

"Oh my god. Now you said that, that just became my biggest fear. Being like, one of those girls who faints on the metro in rush hour. Only with a rifle, maybe in front of many evil foes -"

"There, see, I'm right."

"Thanks, honey." She leaned in and kissed him. Outside, gravel crunched on the road as a car pulled up.

"Have a good mission, babe." She winked, and bumped her forehead against his own. Then she was off.

He heard her footsteps rattle down the hall. He watched from the window as the military car pulled away and gave it a wave.

Then, in the quiet apartment, he let fly a really good loud volley of curses. That kind of helped. Marginally. The gun safe was still open. He wheeled over violently, briefly contemplating shutting the door by ramming into it, but even in this bad a mood, he couldn't bear to screw with ten thousand cenz of cutting edge Rush Valley workmanship. He settled for slamming the door with a hard open-palmed shove. It shut with a satisfying, reverberating clang.

Right. So the plan was to shower, shit and shave, and then drive aggressively to work at least two hours early so that he could head to the range and blow the everliving fuck out of flimsy paper targets with the biggest rifle he could find.  


***

  


  


  


***

Ed liked to switch around his brooding spots from time to time. The fountain on Unification Square had been a favourite until Scar had cornered him there; after that it had just reminded him of what a loser he'd been in that fight. He used to like hotel roofs a lot, but these days, he lived in a crappy apartment above a haberdasher's, a little two storey building with a sloping roof. After he'd broken up with Winry, he'd discovered that bars worked pretty well. You could hang out quietly with your bad mood and look like you were a cool, brooding type with a lot on his mind. You could also have beer. Whisky would probably work better, but Ed couldn't drink the stuff without pulling that shuddery face, and that kind of spoilt the whole cool brooding thing. Tonight, though, he knew he'd have to suck it up and get back to work eventually, so no cool bar brooding for him.

That left the bridge over the West Canal, then.

As always, Al had been so adamant about staying involved with this case, with the translation, Ed thought as he hefted a loose pebble in his hand. Any other time, Ed would have quietly approved of how, when it came down to the big stuff, his brother would raise his hand for military duty without a second thought. Now, of course, Ed saw with unpleasant clarity where that sense of duty had led Al: to signing himself over to be a dog of the military for real. And he was doing it right when Ed was supposed to be retiring. Did Al not believe that Ed would really leave the army? Did he think he was taking over for Ed, picking up Ed's silver watch when he threw it down?

The pebble was the wrong shape for skimming, so Ed just threw it straight downwards - with his left arm, because the violence of the gesture was more satisfying when he felt his muscles pull. Then he picked up another pebble and threw it down, this time using the automail for comparision's sake. No, he'd been wrong: the power and velocity of the automail throw made for a way more dramatic splash that was way more satisfying.

And how the hell did he not know about any of this, Ed thought to himself as he hunted the gutter for another loose stone. Why couldn't he guess what was going on in Al's head? This wasn't fucking fair. This was Ed's big attempt to step back and stop making everyone worry about him, his best shot at being a normal person and seeing how that worked out for him. What was the point if Al was just going to take his place? Fuck.

***

Just after two o'clock in the morning, Alphonse had tracked down Fullmetal wherever he'd gone to sulk and dragged him back to Roy's flat for a very late meeting. In the intervening four hours, Roy had read through the translation three times, then come up with a mental list of questions and a couple of embryonic plans of action. After that, his avenues of enquiry had been exhausted without the Elrics. So he'd stretched out on his bed and decided the most productive course of action until then was to attempt to catch some sleep. He had, of course, gotten nowhere.

By the time the key finally scraped in the door and the Elrics trailed in, Roy was sitting on the library sofa with a mug of hot milk and his favourite novel, rereading the good bits to try and calm his mind. It might as well have been written in Xerxean. None of it was going in, though moving his eyes over the text was helping keep his mind from the memory of the freezing light of the Gate, and the deep, crackling voice of the homunculus, like a scratched gramophone record playing at half-speed.

Roy was trying to imagine where the offer had come from. Had Katzenklavier approached Hakuro, or was it the other way around? Perhaps an idea this insane had to ultimately come from an alchemist? He was guilty of a great deal on that score himself, but this creature made the most stupid, terrible things he'd done with his alchemy look mundane. It made Edward and Alphonse's crime look like a petty misdemeanour.

They were growing a creature with the will and perhaps the power to destroy their civilisation, their world, which perhaps, like Father, might take aim for the Truth itself. Did Katzenklavier even know about that part? How much of the depths of the Bradley regime had he been aware of? Hakuro, Roy knew, hadn't understood many things until afterwards. He'd known that Bradley wasn't human, but even now he still seemed to have the impression that the human scientists who'd created Bradley had actually been in control of that little operation.

Fullmetal and Alphonse sat on either end of the sofa like bookends. Roy pulled out the desk chair and sat in it opposite them, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin propped on his clasped hands. They talked.

"How the hell could making another Homunculus seem like a good idea? To anyone?" Roy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

"The alchemist who wrote this said that a homunculus was the most powerful advisor a king could have." Al was talking with his hands, waving them in slightly manic circles. "The homunculus was supposed to have inborn knowledge, they thought it would have like a hotline to the secrets of the gods. It would serve the ruler who looked after it, like - a pet or something. _All things within the sight of its eye. All things within the reach of its arm. All things laid at the feet of the master who feeds it. It will teach him to catch death itself in a jar_."

There were a few moments of thick, nasty silence in the room. "Eye and arm," said Ed. "That's our fucking friend in the flask all right."

" _Feeds_ it?" asked Roy. "What does it eat?"

"Blood," said Ed. He made a wry face.

Alphonse cut in. "To be totally accurate - the information in human blood. Because our blood contains all the information necessary for building a human." Roy nodded. Ed looked at him with that odd expression - direct stare, darkly humorous twist to the mouth - that had always meant he was thinking of his own greatest mistake. Al was looking at Roy too, but he just looked a little sad. The brothers still didn't look at each other.

Ed said, "The homunculus doesn't have a proper body, just contained alchemical energy. It uses the information in blood to build - an idea of itself."

Roy tapped his own chin. He remembered that woman, her bones and sinew sprouting from the red stone held in his hand. "Information and energy? That's how Father built itself its body, how it built its children. But a new homunculus, it wouldn't have the energy it needed -"

Ed cut him off. "You're right. To build itself a body, it needs a massive Philosopher's stone. The old one, that used half a million people. But its bosses, Katz-whatever and the rest, I bet they don't want it with a body. They want it tame. Sitting in its jar, telling them how to take over the world."

Al shook his head, frowning fiercely. "People can be just so unbelievably stupid and arrogant. Does it stop being surprising after a while?"

"It probably should," said Roy. "But not really, no."

***

"Okay," said Rebecca, bracing herself against the roof of the van, "here's the drill again. We cover the rear entrance. Dino, Bell, Westland, in the sniping positions we agreed, covering the exits and the rear windows. Make _sure_ you've got cover, and if you need to move a garbage can to set up behind it, get a buddy to help, don't do it on your own and make a racket. Rook, Fieseler, Brosch, Charlie, Sullivan, you're with me against the blind wall. When we get the 'go' signal, you wait for my mark and then you follow me in through the back exit. I know I'm tiny and cute, but I can totally kick a door down. Don't dive in ahead of me once we're in action, it makes me crabby - and hey, look, I'm heavily armed. Ground rules are: take out anyone who's a threat, but shoot to wound when it's safe, and a surrender is even better. We can't interrogate corpses. Team on the inside, follow my hand signals. If you see movement, take cover and hold your fire until you've identified. The lights might not always be good, and some of our men are out of uniform, so there's a high risk of friendly fire. Hit one of ours and your ass is mine. Any questions?"

Silence. "Right. You've got your orders." They snapped off salutes. Rebecca tapped two fingers to her temple in return. "Good luck. We'll be there in five. And don't do that whistling-through-your-teeth thing, Dino, it's freaking annoying."

Very shortly after, they pulled up quietly to the rear entrance of the club. Everyone got into position with a minimum of fuss. Rebecca stood at the door with her pistol up, the silencer screwed in. After a minute, she heard Breda's voice crackling on the radio in the van: _Team B clear, over_.

She tried the door handle. Will you look at that, it was unlocked. She raised her left hand in a beckoning motion, then opened up the door quickly and silently, covering the empty corridor. She beckoned her team to follow her in.

They padded quickly behind her. The corridor turned a corner; Rebecca pressed herself against the wall, then pulled a dentist's mirror on a telescopic metal rod from her rifle strap. She poked it around the turning. Nothing.

This was getting eerie. They crept down the corridor and neared the unmistakable double doors of the kitchen. She paused in front of them. Was it empty? At five in the morning, surely ... no. Heavy footsteps tapped across the floor, coming closer to the door. Around her, her team shifted and waited, pressed to the wall one side of the doors. At least things were going to kick off early. All this tension and silence made for twitchy soldiers, and twitchy was dangerous.

The footsteps neared. The doors swung open.

A middle-aged man in his shirtsleeves stepped through, carrying a large grilled cheese sandwich on a napkin and concentrating upon it intently. He took a big bite as he walked past Rebecca as she stood by the door. Then he glanced over at her, casually.

After a moment, he registered the gun in his face and stopped chewing.

The man's eyes drunkenly wandered between the pistol six inches from his nose and the other guns being trained on him by Rebecca's men. Charlie leaned forward from behind him, and pulled an untouched revolver from the waistband of the man's suit pants.

"Shut your mouth, man," said Rebecca, "I really don't need to see your breakfast right now."

He shut his mouth.

Now this was why she liked big guns; they could turn even a shitfaced mobster into a really good listener.

***

"It's really great of you both to come in so early," said Fuery.

Riza and Havoc looked at each other. "Target practice," they both said at the same time.

"How's Captain Catalina?" asked Fuery. "Did she get off all right this morning?"

"Fine," said Havoc. He lowered his eyebrows a bit.

"How's your shoulder, Major? Did you sleep all right?"

"Fine, thank you," said Riza. She pressed her lips together in a firm little line.

Fuery grinned at them brightly in the empty office. "So, do either of you need a refresher on how to use a radio link-up?"

"No," they both said.

"I've got such a work backlog ... thanks so much for helping me out." For a moment, he seemed to notice the heavy atmosphere, then he barrelled on. "I think you'll enjoy it though, there's nothing like on the radios during a mission. It's great, you get the adrenaline rush of being in on the action, only without people shooting at you all the time. It's like the best of both worlds!"

Two pairs of eyes glowered at him steadily. "I'll put the kettle on!" said Fuery. He snapped a quick salute to both of them, and then nearly sprinted to the office kitchen.

***

"The thing, the thing about Mickey Luttenberger," said the man with the sandwich, "is, the thing about him is ... " He waved the sandwich-holding hand, currently raised above his head along with his other hand. A chunk of tomato landed in his hair.

"No," said Rebecca, "we want to know _where_ he is, not what you think of him."

The man peered at her, unfocused. "Sorry, darling, sorry, I'll try again. Didn' mean to be offensive ... " He blinked. "Aren't you s'posed to read me my rights now?"

"No," said Rebecca, "because we're not the police, we're the army. Remember when I said that a minute ago?" She tried not to growl too loudly. "Okay, one more question, drunky, then you get to go to the van and sleep it off." She took a breath and eyeballed him. "Katie Flowers."

"Ah, nice to meet you - well, not that nice." He pointed the sandwich at himself. "I'm Jacky Heston."

"No-o. _I'm_ not Katie Flowers, I'm asking you if -" Something whistled right past Rebecca's ear from behind her, and she registered the little whipcrack of a silenced pistol shot.

In front of her, she saw Fieseler flatten his body to one side and shift his hand up - and in that split second she decided to freeze, not move.

It was the right choice: Fieseler had squeezed off a couple of return shots, and a moment later, she heard a heavy thud from behind her. She turned. A man in a suit she hadn't seen before was lying on the floor, bleeding from a headshot. Sullivan was already picking up his fallen gun.

There was a beat of silence. "Nice, Fieseler," she said quietly. This guy must have come from the other end of the corridor. How the hell had he even managed to sneak up when they were covering that direction? There wasn't time for her to find out where their blind spot was, and if someone had screwed up - but, wow, these Luttenberger guys really were good. She was starting to see how they got this reputation.

"Brosch?" She jerked her thumb at the drunk guy with the sandwich, who was being quiet for the moment, thankfully. "Take this guy out back and get him in the van." Brosch nodded and set to herding fuzzy out the back.

They crept on, step by quiet step, towards Mickey Luttenberger's office. At the door, Rebecca trained her pistol, and counted her team down with her fingers. On zero, she turned the handle and pushed through. Her team burst into the office, guns fanning out to cover the room.

It was, of course, completely deserted.

Rebecca gave the place a brief once-over. The furnishings were pretty much what you'd expect from a gang boss that used a strip club as a front for his operation: fake antique, plushy chairs that looked cheap but probably cost a fortune, big expensive radio, and an awesomely tacky naked lady painting over the mantlepiece. The desk was pretty empty. The guy probably wasn't big on paperwork. There was a photo on his desk of a tiny old granny in a silver frame. Cute. He had one of those novelty cigarette lighters in the shape of a knight in armour statuette. And - ah, cigarette butts in the ashtray. Rebecca waved Charlie over and pointed to them. "Those are recent. Look, he didn't stub that one out properly. It's still burning and the ash is still right on the cigarette all neat." It was kind of handy that she'd recently moved in with a smoker who lied poorly about how many he got through a day.

"So you reckon he could still be in?"

"He's probably out on the shop floor right now. Time to make our way there."

They took a left and headed for the dancers' dressing room. Beyond that was a door which was going to take them right out onto the stage of the club. Timing and was going to be crucial here - unless Miles' team was in place by the time they got there, Rebecca's team was going to make beautiful targets.

Once again, at the door, Rebecca counted her team down, and then they burst in and covered the room.

Inside the dressing room were a couple of tired-looking girls in t-shirts and pants. One was taking her make-up off with cold-cream, and the other was pulling hair extensions on combs out of her roots. They froze, looked up at all the pointed weaponry with bored expressions, then put their hands on their heads. It was kind of impressive how unimpressed they were. Maybe they got guns pointed at them all day long or something?

"Looking for Jimmy Kramer, Mickey and Yves Luttenberger, and Sid Cole," announced Rebecca. "Seen 'em?"

All through there," said the first girl, nodding to the other door.

"Do we get money for telling you that?" asked the second girl.

"Nope," said Rebecca. "You just get a chance to look for better employment opportunities."

"Yay," said the first girl, colourlessly.

"Sullivan, escort these two out back. Then collect Brosch and get back in here."

They were still lined up in the little corridor near the curtained doorway that led to the stage when Brosch and Sullivan tiptoed back in. The seconds ticked by. Voices drifted out from the club floor. How was Miles' team not in there already? Had someone got the jump on them in the lobby? Then - gunshots, a crash and a harsh whistle. Rebecca pointed her finger, and then sprinted out onto the stage with her gun up and her team behind her.

"- you hypocritical fucks, what about rule of law? You're not even the police, you're the army, what the fuck is the army doing in my club?" A little table near the stage was overturned, drinks and cards spilled on the floor. Behind it crouched two men with revolvers cocked. One of them was shouting.

Miles' voice rang out. "Shut up, Luttenberger. You target the army, the army targets you."

Luttenberger and the other guy turned towards Rebecca's team, but Rebecca's team had them covered. She motioned with her pistol - but then a third man was suddenly sprinting across the club floor, carrying - _oh shit_ \- a tommy gun. He was firing as he ran. Looking where he was aiming, Rebecca picked out flashes of blue uniform from behind booths and columns. She took aim for the gunman, and heard the click of weapons cocking from her team around her. A moment later, the guy with the tommy gun jerked right and left, then hit the floor. Rebecca wasn't sure which of them had got him. His gun fired randomly as it skidded across the club floor. Using the chaos to his advantage, one of the men behind the table rose, turned on them, and fired. Beside Rebecca, Brosch went down. Luttenberger's head snapped back with a red spray.

"Charlie!" yelled Rebecca. He got an arm around Brosch and dragged him back towards the curtain. Blood was slicking Brosch's thigh and he was groaning in his throat, his face scrunched. The other guy from the table was diving behind the bar. Rebecca ran to the front of the stage with her pistol held downwards, trying to get a bead on him - and Fieseler had vaulted on top of him already. He was so getting a commendation for this.

There was some motion and gunshots from behind a column - the door of the men's bathroom slammed. Shit, where were all these guys coming from?

Another movement in the corner of Rebecca's eye grabbed her attention. She saw a side door creak, and a lanky guy slip through it. Was he running away? Rebecca automatically vaulted down to the club floor and ran from column to column, aiming for the side door to pursue. Halfway there, she registered that he'd been carrying a rifle. And that through the side door in question were the stairs that led to the balcony. A perfect sniping spot: from up there, the soldiers' cover would be worthless. He could just pick them off.

That wasn't going to happen.

She sprinted up the stairs three at the time, getting flashes of his stupid long legs ahead of her. As she cleared the top of the stairs, she swung up her rifle up and trained it on the door the lanky guy was running towards on the other side of the lobby. She popped a hole in the door to let him know his exit was cut off, then swung the rifle on him - and had to duck down to the stairs as he returned fire. Part of the bannister exploded into splinters. There was a moment of silence, then a crash. Rebecca raised her head again - and ducked immediately as she heard shots on the way up.

She looked down, and noticed her hands were steady. Seemed that was diesel. She'd seen a table on its end, the second time she'd looked. She took out her telescopic mirror and checked. The guy had upturned a table a good few feet from the door that led to the balcony.

She waited. After a few moments' silence, there was movement from the table and they went another round: fire, return fire, rapid ducking. He was fast. He was very fast. Was that Cole? Skinny, balding guy - she'd read his file the previous afternoon. He was one of their hitmen.

Well, if you know you're always going to wonder about something, and you've only got one shot at finding out, you might as well, right?

"Hey," yelled Rebecca, from her position on the stairs.

A pause, then, "What?"

"Katie Flowers."

"What the fuck, we're doing introductions? I don't fucking care."

"No, asswipe. Was it you?"

"Was _what_ me?"

"Katie Flowers, thirty-two, apartment up by Unification Park, ginger hair. Was that you?"

"Eh?" There was a short pause while the guy presumably tried to work out why the hell she was even asking. Then, "Oh. Yeah, that was me. What's your point?" as if he were confessing to double-parking his car.

She heard him shift. He was going to come up from the right this time, she knew it - Rebecca rose, got a bead on him, tracked him as he came up. The bullet popped straight through his left eye socket before he even saw her.

He hit the floor hard. He didn't even twitch.

***

Riza's shoulder was bothering her. Aspirin wasn't really doing the trick. But her aim had been decidedly off at the range that morning, so that was that: she'd decided that the strong hospital painkillers had to be kept for night time. During the day, she'd just have to pop an aspirin, set her teeth and ignore it.

 _Homunculus_ , she thought. The day of the eclipse was still as sharp in her memory: that great bubble over her head that had looked like a film of engine oil, the low throb of pain across her neck. The sun had been blotted out, her legs wouldn't stop shaking, and that huge sick fear for everything had focused like light through a magnifying glass onto the single thought: _where is Roy?_

She stood in the doorway of the interrogation room and looked at Major Miles, his glasses off and eyes locked with a dishevelled, hungover crook. Ten minutes ago, neutralising the Luttenbergers had seemed like the order of business. Now, even the man who'd trapped her like an animal in her own apartment building seemed like a small, manageable, human kind of problem compared to what Roy had just told her about what Katzenklavier was making.

Still, this business was the next step in locating Katzenklavier, and it was a comfortably-sized challenge to focus her mind on. It certainly made sense that Katzenklavier would have been using the Luttenberger gang for his armed backup. This way, Hakuro's faction would have plausible deniability for any deaths. And the gang were as dangerous as their reputation.

Well, they weren't anything to worry about any more: the gang was well and truly neutralised. Mickey Luttenberger and Jimmy Kramer were dead at the scene. Yves Luttenberger was in custody and asking for his lawyer with tedious regularity. Seeing that matter through to a conviction was going to be fun. Five more gang members were dead. The other man they'd taken alive was their best bet for information on Katzenklavier's base of operations: a middle-ranking gangster called Jacky Heston.

Miles looked up at her; she flicked her eyebrows up, a silent question.

"Mr Heston's decided to talk to us," he said evenly. "Sensible guy." Heston had something of the look of a small animal that a cat had been toying with: rigid, quivering, eyes watchful and watery. Miles stood, tucking a pencil into his clipboard, nodded to the soldiers guarding the unfortunate Mr Heston, and stepped out of the room.

Out in the corridor, he tore off the top sheet of paper, folded it and handed it to Riza. "Here you are, Major Hawkeye. This should be enough for you to act on."

She scanned her eyes over the paper. So that was where Katzenklavier was hiding. Funny. "Thank you, Major. This should be of immediate interest to the brigadier general." The corridor of Headquarters' lockup was too public a place to discuss their plans in plain language, but she trusted he'd take her meaning. Now that they knew where Chrysalis was based and what he was attempting to do, she imagined Roy would want to visit him in person within the hour.

"How's the shoulder?" His tone was kind, but there was a hidden question in it: would she be going out into the field with Roy this time, regardless?

"I've been staying with you for a few nights now; you know how it is. Business as usual."

He nodded at her and gave her that cheeky half-smile. "You're stubborn; very Briggs of you."

She inclined her head. "You should say, that's very Team Mustang of me."

***

"You're injured," said Roy. "Absolutely not."

"I'm fit for duty as it's necessary." Riza locked eyes with him, and the staring match began. Roy was sure she'd learnt this trick from him. It was very annoying how often she seemed able to beat him at it.

"And you've decided it is necessary?"

"Yes, sir." Riza stuck her bottom lip out. She looked about fifteen. Of course, back when she was fifteen, he'd rarely won arguments with her either.

Roy sighed theatrically and put a hand in his hair. "I'm surrounded by insubordination. It's thoroughly aggravating. I'd have you all locked up, but then I'd have to do all the work around here myself." Riza's deadpan look had a hint of soft gratitude around the eyes. He smiled at her, and put a little smirk into the smile. "All right. Send one of your men to Armstrong and have him track down a building plan for us." And how extremely unfortunate it was that they couldn't get away with requisitioning Armstrong himself for this mission. "We'll be moving out at 1200."

***

Rebecca leant against Havoc's desk. The sexy ninja outfit was a little rumpled, and her hair was coming out of her ponytail at one side. She hadn't fixed it.

He propped his chin on one hand and looked up at her. "So, how was the debriefing?"

"Consider me debriefed." She stared into the middle distance for a long moment. Her silence was a worryingly un-Becky-like thing. Quietly, she continued, "I think Miles knows I got the guy who killed Katie. I don't even know how he could know that. Those Briggs guys are spooky. But you know what's funny? He seemed kind of cool with it." She shrugged, then spaced again.

Havoc considered his options. Even as he worried over her, a small part of him savoured having this job of Becky maintenance to distract him this morning, while Riza strapped on a hundred guns for the big mission and the Chief did some quick brooding exercises to get himself into the zone. Whatever the hell Katzenklavier was doing, it was obvious that there were terrible things lurking in the shadows again. And once again, he was itching to blow their heads off - but he was going to have to settle for setting the traps.

"You know what?" he said, considering an idea. You could hardly call yourself a member of Team Mustang unless you knew how to take advantage of the system. "I'm feeling a little tired. I might move my two 'o clock to tomorrow morning, maybe just take some work home this afternoon. Have you eaten anything since the banana?"

"What? No, nothing." Rebecca tucked a finger under her chin, and after a moment, a more Becky-ish glint lit in her eyes. "You know something? I'm starving. Is that bad?"

"No. That's completely respectable. Post-mission munchies. I always used to go out for some steak in pepper sauce and fries."

"Really? 'Cause I always get that, the post-mission munchies. I do! Morning after the Promised Day, there was this stall that was giving out free cheese crepes to the soldiers, I swear I had about four for breakfast." She was grinning properly now, still tired, a little manic, but cheeky and shameless and full of life again.

"How about we hit the Celador Cafe and get the all day breakfast deal?"

"Ooh. I haven't had a Celador breakfast for a while. I could go for one of their Bloody Marys, too."

Havoc started getting his things together. Was he good, or what? He knew how this thing was going to go, too. Rebecca was still just as strung-out as she had seemed a minute ago, but now that all that leftover energy from the fight had a little goal to latch onto, Rebecca's mood had swung up. She definitely seemed more perky, but it wouldn't last for long: missions were draining in every sense of the word.

Halfway through her breakfast, he bet she would crash. He'd have his wallet ready, so when it happened, he'd be ready to slap some bills on the table and coax her straight off to the car. He'd drive her home, take her straight to bed, and hold her warm little body while she cried or ranted or stayed quiet, whatever she needed to do until she fell asleep. Then he'd get himself up and get down to the afternoon's work. And then, some other day, it'd be her turn to do that for him.

It was funny. He'd never thought that he was any good at this part of relationships, that it could be so easy for him to know the right thing to say and do for a grieving girlfriend who didn't know what to do with herself. It was even stranger that it could be easy to contemplate letting go in front of her himself. But they were a team, right? That was how it worked.

  


***

Al put the phone down, carefully. Well, thought Ed, _of course_ he volunteered immediately to join them on the mission.

Ed snorted and said, "You haven't even drafted yourself yet."

Al answered, "I drafted myself years ago, and you know it."

Ed didn't say anything else. He just frowned and glared at Al. Al glared and frowned back. After a minute, Ed started to get a crick in his neck. Then they both turned on their heels, headed into their rooms, and slammed the doors in perfect unison.

Al must have been ready to head to headquarters before Ed was, because soon Ed heard footsteps and the slam of the front door. Ed waited a moment, then walked into the living room and dropped into the chair by the telephone table. Well, at least he had a few minutes' privacy. He picked up the telephone receiver. He weighed it in his hand. Nice and heavy. Well-constructed. You could swing it at a burglar in a pinch. His hand floated over the rotary dial. He had a lot of stuff to do right now. He needed to get changed, wash his face, check out that passage in his last notebook in case it turned out - eh. All that stuff was going to take him five minutes, and he knew it.

He scrunched his eyes shut and exhaled loudly. Then he dialed the exchange for Rush Valley.

***

When Winry got herself to the phone and heard the silence on the other end, she knew, somehow, just who it was. She didn't bother with the whole "Atelier Garfiel, how can I help?" She just said, quietly, "Hey."

"Hey," said Ed, his voice crackling through the lines from hundreds of miles away.

"Hey," said Winry, again.

"I'm an asshole," said Ed.

"Or you could say hello. Hello is good."

"Hello. I'm an asshole."

"Ed, you really think that's what I -"

"No, seriously. I didn't call, I didn't write. I thought I should just, you know, keep the hell out of your face -"

"Well, there might have been something to that -"

"But - I shouldn't have just stayed out of touch, because -"

" _Stop interrupting all the time_!"

"Sorry." A chastened mutter. She felt bad. He seemed kind of nervous. Goodness knows, her own heart was hammering in her chest right now.

"Jeez ..." she said, automatically, but not unkindly.

"So, how've you been?" 

What was she supposed to say to that? Heartbroken? Busy? Scared? Angry?

"Busy. Hey, you know that old motorbike I was talking about?"

"Round the back at Simon's place?"

"Yeah. Well, I got it running! I ride it all over town now, I love it."

"Wow." Was that a good wow, or a scared wow? "I've got some pictures I can send, the bike's looking beautiful now. And I'm learning to carry people on the back. Paninya and I rode out to the mountains to practice. It's pretty difficult at first, but the weight of the bike helps compensate - and I figured if I can take Paninya, I can take most people, her legs weigh a ton. I mean, I'm not denigrating Mr Dominic's work, it's classic, but you know that old-fashioned stuff is so heavy, and with modern alloys we can - "

There was a low chuckle down the line. She missed that laugh - and oh, she was _really_ babbling. Ed said, "Sounds awesome. I've still never ridden a motorcycle."

"Well, next time you and Al come to see me, maybe I'll let you guys try it out."

There was a little pause. Winry's heart contracted miserably. Dammit, he was going to be an asshole about this. How could he not be a part of her life, how could he just walk out of hers -

"Would that - be cool with you? I mean ..." But Ed didn't seem to know what he meant.

Winry let the silence draw out until she realised he wasn't going to continue. "Of course it's cool with me. You've got to come, anyway. I've been redesigning your shoulder brace, remember? You're getting a complete arm refit and a tune-up for the leg, we need to book you in." Another pause. "And it'd be good to see you. Both of you."

"I - that'd be good. Yeah ... Wait, you redesigned it? Really?"

"Of course I redesigned it! Ed, you need it! And this is some of the best work I've ever done, there's - I've -" And just like that, her throat closed up on her. She sat on the little work room stool, gripping the receiver tightly with both hands and trying to breathe.

Through the wires, Ed's voice said, very quietly, "Thank you." Then, "I've got to go now. But after - we should talk more. I'd really, really like us to be friends again, to -" He went quiet again. Had his voice cracked, or was that just the bad line?

"Family," said Winry. Her voice sounded creaky to her. "To be a family." She heard Ed breathing shakily down the line. "Hey. I'll send you the blueprints for the new brace and arm. The brace is a pretty radical redesign, with that and some physio you should see some major improvements with the back pain, we've got a whole programme worked out, I'll send you a copy ... " Yeah. Babbling again. Why had he called right now? He was probably about to go off and do something dangerous, wasn't he? Things weren't really calming down in Central, she knew that much from Al. Honestly, they weren't really calming down in Rush Valley either. She wondered if Al had manned up and told him about the State Alchemist examination yet? "Hey," she said carefully, "take care."

"It's a promise."

She closed her eyes. And into the ringing silence, she found herself saying the one thing that she had promised herself she wouldn't say. "Ed? I think there's going to be another war."

Very quietly, from very far away, his voice sounded in her ear. "Yeah. Me too."

***

  


  



	8. Some Things Never Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mustang, Hawkeye, Ed and Al reach the heart of the matter, then vandalise a historic building.

When the car pulled up, the deserted narrow sidestreet was already shadowed by the afternoon sun. Al stepped out and looked up at the little old temple. Its round dome and one wall were propped up by scaffolding. A painted sign on the old wooden door implored citizens: _Sul's Temple Westgate: your donations are needed now for the repair of our beloved Lady's shrine_. The lock was a simple, heavy mortice. Al clapped quietly and tapped it open.

Inside, the shrine was cavernous. The air was dusty and chilled by the thick stone walls, and the light suddenly low. Al blinked and waited for his eyes to adjust. Even now this was still an odd sensation to him: the momentary loss of vision. He imagined his pupils opening up like tiny camera apertures.

Behind him, the door creaked open and closed. Al turned; the Brigadier General stood with his hands in his pockets. He nodded at Al. Al vaguely thought about saluting, but was fairly sure that he couldn't remember the protocol right, so he just nodded in return.

The two of them stood in silence for a few moments. Al looked at the pools of sunlight thrown on the floor by the high alabaster windows, motes of dust swirling in the rays. A painted statue of Sul stared at him, ancient and serene, from an alcove in the wall nearest to him. She cradled a fat sheaf of wheat in her arms, and the bowl of grain set in front of her was covered in a film of dust. One of her hands was missing.

"So," Mustang said, "there's your problem of how to tell Edward solved for you."

Al winced. "After this," he said, "we're going to talk. I'll tell him why I'm doing this."

"I expect he knows why," said Mustang with a shrug. He looked sharply at Al. "But don't make any commitments that you can't take back."

"I worked that one out already," said Al mildly. Mustang's eyes widened briefly, as if he'd just remembered who he was talking to. "But thanks, sir."

The door creaked again, and Major Hawkeye entered. She was dressed in black, with a frightening number of guns strapped to various parts of her, and was carrying a hurricane lamp. Ed came in behind her, carrying another lamp. He turned from Al with a scowl, and tapped the door locked again.

The Major saluted Mustang. Ed nodded. Then Ed looked Al up and down, and shook his head derisively.

"What?" Al questioned.

"What are you _wearing_?"

Al looked down at himself and evaluated. He'd worn sneakers with good grip, corduroy pants that had enough stretch in them to be okay for sparring, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a sweater-vest, because it'd probably be cold in the old building. It all seemed pretty practical to him. "What's wrong with this? This is fine."

"You're wearing a _sweater-vest_ to a fight? How are you supposed to get your blood pumping wearing that? You're all _preppy_ , you look like you're off to invite some girl to the sock hop - you look like a _student_ "-

"I _am_ a student! Why does it matter if I look like one? And you know Teacher always said you shouldn't fight with your blood up, you should let emotions pass through you and not let them decide your moves for you-"

"Teacher - on this one occasion - was full of shit! You've seen her fight. I've heard her use words _I_ don't know; I think she might make some of 'em up. There's no _way_ she's letting her feelings pass through her into the earth or whatever. " Ed stopped ranting and bit back whatever he'd been about to say. "Anyway - whoever we fight, they're gonna laugh at you, that's all I'm saying."

Al laughed; Ed really couldn't talk. He was wearing a ridiculous mandarin-collared black top that was his favourite for gigs, a dark jacket, his latest pair of leather pants, and that skull-buckled belt that Al really should have stolen back and de-skulled last week. "What about what _you're_ wearing, did you borrow that top from _Greed_? Oh, and can I have my belt back now, please?"

"It'll look stupid with your stupid sweater-vest."

"I'm not gonna wear it. I just want your pants to fall down in the middle of a fight."

A distinctive, sharp snapp sounded just behind Al. He and Ed both jumped, then turned.

Mustang kept his hand raised for long enough for them to register that nothing was on fire, then he made a show of dropping it to his side and sighing. "Well, at least your screaming match confirms we're alone here."

Ed shoved his hands into his pockets. "So, we're going underground from here, right?"

"Not quite. Katzenklavier's in the old Ducal Palace." Wait, wasn't that way out of town? Mustang took in Ed and Al's blank looks, and continued, "Have either of you ever heard of Duke Humphrey's Walk?"

"That secret tunnel that's supposed to go from the palace into town?" Al had had a serious historical novel phase when he was fourteen.

Mustang was obviously really enjoying himself now. "The tunnel was built as an escape route if the palace was attacked. It was supposedly sealed off after an assassin used it in the eighteenth century. But I happen to know the entrance is definitely here, and it was still open twenty years ago." He started towards a stone staircase leading down at the rear of the hall. They followed him down.

At the foot of the stairs, Mustang took Hawkeye's lamp and raised it to illuminate the temple's well chamber. It conspicuously lacked any kind of door. "Damn. They've used this passage. They must have sealed the entrance." Mustang strode around the circular chamber, peering closely at the walls. Hawkeye gave Ed and Al a meaningful look, and they went to help.

"So, are you _sure_ it's there at all?" Ed's voice had an evil ring to it.

"I've been here. My foster mother worked out where the entrance was back when I was a kid, and she brought me along one night to look for it. Her idea of educational fun."

"Long time ago. What if you got the wrong shrine? Your memory must be pretty splooey by now."

"Got it!" Al exclaimed. The wall in front of him bore the faint, geometric marks of a transmutation. He clapped and let the excess stone ripple outwards into the walls it had been drawn from. Behind it was another set of steps led down into freezing darkness.

With a quiet nod, Mustang led the way down. Ed glared at Al as he passed. Al responded by neatly swiping his lantern.

***

This mission was going really, really well so far, Roy thought to himself with grouchy sarcasm. Riza looked stiff and in pain but he couldn't send her home, the Elrics seemed unable to keep their brotherly spat to themselves, and it seemed Chrysalis was already using their supposed surprise route in. Roy got halfway through thinking _hey, at least the tunnel's unguarded_ , before deciding to just abandon that thought and keep his guard up. It was clearly that kind of a day.

Alongside them, the underground river Sulis flowed on its course, a lightless void with bright flashes flickering on the surface from their lanterns.

Al said, "It's kind of sad to see the shrine falling apart like that. Did it get damaged during the Promised Day? It must be at least thirteenth-century."

Roy answered, "Twelfth. Sul's the patron of this city. Duke Godfrey poured a lot of money into building that little shrine back in his day. Sul might be an obscure aspect of the Goddess, but -"

Ed tutted. "But how is it worth dropping a ton of money to fix? There were people injured on the Promised Day who can't afford their hospital bills." He shoved his hands into his pockets. Roy was mildly amazed that he could fit them in, given how tight those leather pants were.

Hawkeye said, "It's people's choice where they donate their money, no one's forcing them to give it to the shrine."

In his bad mood, Ed couldn't be stopped. "But there are hospitals that need the money, schools. Fuck, why don't they just throw the money into the bottomless Rush Valley money pit, there are enough people who lost limbs that day -"

Al cut in. "But Sul's the symbol of Central. I know it's only a little temple, but it sort of makes sense that people want to-"

"Throw their money at a shrine to a fictional deity when they could be helping people who are _right here_. Right. Fuck, why isn't anyone agreeing with me here?" Ed threw his hands up. His voice echoed through the narrow tunnel.

Roy said, "You know, Fullmetal, I'd agree with you, but the way you're putting it is so obnoxiously intolerant I don't _want_ to be on your side any more."

Ed said sourly, "Well, I guess that's what happens when you sit around a committee table half the day trying to run a country with a bunch of douchebags. You get too tolerant, forget when to tell an asshole he's an asshole."

"You can insult my diplomacy skills when you're capable of stating your case without screaming -"

" _What_? What about when we were talking about carbon fixation methodology on Wednesday? I totally won that-" And then Ed just stopped, as if his throat had closed up mid-sentence.

Al whispered, "Well, you've done religion and politics, how about sex?" In the sudden, echoing quiet, the sound carried unfortunately well. So did Ed's entertaining little choking noise.

Riza said mildly, "I think we should all bear in mind that this is a _stealth_ operation." Ed shoved his hands in his pockets again. Al rubbed the back of his neck. Roy had the longest experience of Riza, and so knew that the best strategy when she showed you up by being right about something was just to do it without comment or fuss. They walked on for a few moments without talking, lanterns raised.

Then Al said carefully, "I think we should step away from the water." Roy glanced at the sluggish, dark flow for a second. He could see nothing different. As the four of them stepped back. Al continued, "but we should keep moving."

Roy half-turned as he started to lead them along, now pressed to the wall. "You think there's something in the water?"

"Uh. Not necessarily. But it feels like there are people in here." All four of them looked around the black, wet walls. "And they're not here, so ... they must be either in the earth, or in the water. Or I'm wrong. I could be wrong."

"Are you sure you're not just nervous?" Ed cut in. "It's not like you've been practicing this long. Your mind can fool your body, you know, like the placebo effect. Remember when you thought you could sense the landlady at the door and it was totally your imagination? I still think this _qi_ stuff is suspect, I reckon Ling used to just make it up half the time to get his own way -"

Al whistled. Ed tutted, and smacked him on the back of the head lightly. What was that about?

Al continued, waving his arms, "It's like a big crowd of angry people."

"Philosopher's Stone?" asked Roy.

Al shook his head. "They're all over the place, all around. I don't _think_ so." He sounded more and more uncertain.

"Could it be - animals?" Roy paused, and tried to rephrase. Fullmetal was right - it wasn't as if Alphonse had been studying this very long. "I mean, can you tell if _qi_ is human or not?"

"Brigadier General, are you suggesting I might be sensing fish?"

Ed snorted explosively. Al tutted. Riza sighed very quietly.

"Yes," said Roy. "Pretty much."

"No way. Definitely humans. Other creatures feel kind of -" Al waved his hands, vaguely.

Then the river exploded.

Roy snapped before he even knew what he was looking at - but in the low-ceilinged tunnel, it was only ever going to be a short burst of flame. He made it as wide and intense as he safely could, and shielded his face from the blast of hot air. Through the hiss of the water and the roar of the fire another sound fought its way out: a many-voiced howl. As the fire died, he made out a swarm of small things surging quickly forwards from the bank - and in the same moment a wall of packed earth sliced up between them and the creatures. Ed and Al each had a hand to the floor.

Roy roared, " _Run_."

No one needed telling twice. They sprinted along the narrowed corridor in single file. Fullmetal and Alphonse went ahead, silently taking it in turns to clap up further banks of wall. Riza covered the rear, her pistol drawn, glancing behind to check they were still alone. Splashes and skittering noises sounded through the tunnel.

As he clapped and put a hand to the wall, Ed yelled in time to his motions, "What - the - fuck?"

"At a guess? Chrysalis' spider golems."

"There are _souls_ in there?"

"Human soul, armoured shell."

Riza shone her lantern on a mark on the wall. "Two miles to go. I suggest we pace ourselves."

They jogged along in silence for a few minutes. The sounds gradually faded away. Ed and Al kept putting up the barrier regardless, without being ordered to do so. That was sensible.

"Why are they so aggressive?" asked Ed, talking easily as he ran. "I mean, I remember those Immortal Army things, but - a lot of the time, the souls in a Philosopher's Stone are just sad, or crazy, but not _kill crazy_ -"

"They're in pain," said Al. "Like, if a cat's hurt and it'll go crazy if you go near it?"

Hawkeye said, "They feel pain in the armour? I thought there was no sensation?"

Al turned around for a moment. His eyes were wide. "It's the soul pulling away. If" - he pulled a breath in - "the link to the container is shaky, it feels - I can't describe it. Bad. Like one of those dreams you only get when you've got a really high fever?"

"The pain is part of the design," said Roy. Chrysalis had explained it to him, back in Ishbal all those years ago, how much better the creatures would work when they were mad with agony. "They're crazy with it, they only respond to basic stimulae - makes them easier to control."

Ed made an explosive sound, and slapped his hand to the wall to thicken it up again. "Hey - when you're in charge? Can we not have any of these nutjobs? Could we not pay these nutjobs for their douchebag asswipe fuckwad shit?"

"Yes, that's what I was going to call the Bill when I draft it. The Douchebag Asswipe - what was the other thing?

"Fuckwad."

"- Fuckwad Shit Taboo Alchemy Containment Bill. That'll sell it to Parliament, thank you, Fullmetal."

Not far ahead of them, Al's lantern lit up a blank wall. They all sped up, but Al had the longest legs. He took the lantern in two fingers, then clapped and touched the stone wall with his free hand. It rolled up.

Roy held a hand up to stop Al, then took Al's lantern and walked into the dark space first himself.

He was standing in a long room with a low, vaulted ceiling, lined with barrels and smelling strongly of must. It was quiet and still. He waved the others in. So, the tunnel went straight to the palace wine cellar, just as rumour had it. He really owed his mother for this one. If the mission went really well, perhaps he could sneak her and the girls a couple of bottles from down here? He should properly thank Vanessa, too ...

Behind him, Ed clapped the doorway shut. He Ed said quietly, "So, if Dr K is keeping golems in the tunnel, what's the betting he's left this place unguarded?"

Riza said, "Katzenklavier seemed to be relying on the Luttenberger gang for backup, so our working theory was that he didn't have any working - living - golems. Apparently, we were wrong."

Al said, "Why make them that way?"

"The theory? They're aggressive and easy to control, they're small and manoeuvrable. They swarm instinctively."

"Because _people_ in a panic swarm instinctively, right?" Ed's voice was low and angry.

"Yes. And as I remember, they have very sharp teeth."

Al said, "And I guess they're invulnerable unless you get the seal or break them apart?"

Roy just shrugged and nodded.

Everyone looked around them, into the shadows.

Roy said, "Let's proceed slowly and head up towards the kitchens. They'd make good labs, so Chrysalis could well be there. Watch out." As they walked on slowly, Roy was finding himself thinking of another day, another tunnel, another creature. His stomach rolled a little.

He gave Riza his most annoying grin. "More things you can't shoot. Sure you don't regret that you're not in the truck in the woods with Miles and the backup team?"

Riza gave him a narrow, sideways look. "It doesn't look like those things burn, either."

"People. They used to be people." Ed's eyes were large and round, his brows pressed together. The four of them looked around at each other. Then Edward just shrugged and looked wry. "Yeah. I get it. Whatever it takes, right?"

Riza's mouth twitched. "Besides, guns might be useless on those monsters, but they work perfectly well on alchemists."

At the top of the wine cellar stairs, Roy and Riza edged ahead. How many times had they done this over the years? They nodded to each other. Then he threw the door open, she dived through, turned and covered the space, and he followed her with both hands ready to snap. They finished the move standing back to back, weapons covering the large, empty kitchen.

Ed made a little sound, suspiciously as though he might be repressing a snort.

***

Ed set his shoulders, narrowed his eyes, and looked around. Mustang was right: the kitchens were clearly being used as a laboratory. Ed looked over the flasks on the long tables, the scattered pencils, the vestiges of chalk circles on the flagstone floor. He counted five empty coffee mugs. How many people were working here? But then, if he was honest, Ed could make this much of a mess on his own.

Ed picked up a little flask from the table. An inch of thick, dark red liquid ran slowly around the bottom, clinging to the sides like syrup. "Modification through congelation," he said, and snorted. "They're concentrating the blood, to make the information in it more digestible for the little homunculus." Al pulled a face.

"Well, it's only just after lunchtime," said Mustang.

Hawkeye tutted at him as she covered the door.

Ed noticed how none of them mentioned that this might mean there was already a creature to be fed.

Where the hell were the people who had been working in the kitchens? A few minutes later, the four of them had taken a narrow back staircase up from the kitchens, passed though little antechambers with pieces of decaying furniture, through a vaulted council chamber with tall wooden chairs built into the walls - all with no sign of anyone. This was getting fucking eerie. The whole place smelled like a cellar, slightly damp and mouldy. Now they stood at the foot of a broad, enclosed staircase.

Ed felt a sudden urge to fidget. He tilted his head and stretched his left shoulder down until his joints crunched and popped satisfyingly, then did the same for the right until the automail joint squeaked against the brace. What was up with the air around here, anyway? It felt like something he'd felt before, but he couldn't say exactly where yet.

Al was frowning slightly, his head tilting and his lips pursed a bit. That was Al's confused face, and as Ed had pointed out to him many times, it looked extremely dumb. Ed shifted from foot to foot, uneasy.

"Right," said Mustang briskly and quietly. "I want this done quickly. We'll have to split up; it can't be helped." Hawkeye shifted over to his side automatically. He gave her a regretful look and continued, "and we should have a _takwin_ expert in each group. Major, Alphonse, take the rest of the ground floor. Fullmetal, we're going to take the next floor. If we don't find anything, we'll meet back here and move on together."

Ed pulled the obligatory face at hearing that he was with Mustang, but the awful truth of it was that, with all this crap still hanging about between him and Al, it was a relief.

Then Ed's discomfort turned in an entirely different direction. It hit him with a flash of recognition: it felt like Father's room up those stairs. That feeling of wrongness that couldn't be pinned down to a sound or a sense, just an indefinable sensation that hummed at the edge of your senses like an off-key note. Life energy running in the wrong direction, away from the flow of the world.

Mustang's face was completely bland. He must have known Ed could feel that, and Al too. They were all alchemists, after all, tuned in to the flow of the world's energy - and they had all felt the jarring wrongness of the place before.

Hawkeye looked at Mustang, snapped her heels together and saluted. Al nodded, and looked at Ed almost sadly. Ed was starting to get that creeping feeling of guilt that meant he'd been a jackass and was going to have to fix it later. He set it aside for now, nodded back, and watched the two of them walk cautiously down the hallway.

Mustang raised the lantern. Silently, he and Ed took the stairs.

As Al's and Hawkeye's steps tapped away below them, Ed and Mustang took in the view through each of the doors they'd opened. To the left and right of them were identical, straight corridors. This part of the building was built around a central courtyard. Windows on one wall gave onto it, and the corridors continued beyond.

"If Hawkeye realises you deliberately palmed her off with the unscary job," Ed said with some relish, "she's really gonna make it hurt."

"The major's injured. I'd have her here if I could." Mustang's eyes narrowed. "Tell her and I'll make sure you suffer along with me."

Ed grinned evilly. The guy tried to hide it, but he really was a sap.

"We're short on time," said Mustang. "The corridor runs all the way around. We'll each look for the source, then meet in the middle and take it together."

"Gotcha," said Ed. Mustang was already striding off to the left.

Ed stepped down the marble-floored corridor as quietly as he could, listening at each door. As he walked, he concentrated on that vile sensation of energy flowing the wrong way. It was getting stronger, more undeniable. He thought about the little jars full of blood back in the kitchens. They'd made something. They were feeding something. Something was here.

He stopped in front of a pair of dark wooden double doors. That repulsive feeling radiated from them like heat. He glanced between them. They were unlocked. Ed put a hand to the handle and hauled in a deep breath.

Ed surged into the room, wheeled around - and found it empty. Plain, and completely empty. There was a single tall window. The bars on it looked alchemical, and recently made at that. There were no other doors, no cupboards, just plain stucco walls with the faded remnants of wall paintings visible in patches.

The only object in the room was a tall-backed old chair made of dark wood. On the chair sat a glass jar, a tall chemical flask with the top corked and sealed.

In the jar, there was nothing.

And from the nothing there radiated the most intense sensation of wrongness Ed had felt since he had crouched screaming over a circle of red light at eleven years old.

His legs locked. His throat closed. His arms were raised in front of him, in a useless, reflexive fighting pose.

He stared at the utterly empty jar in the silent, bare room until his eyes felt dry and spots of static danced in front of them.

Then he managed to haul in a breath, then another, and step by painful step, to back out of the room.

He reached the door, slammed it shut in front of him, then whirled around to blunder forward blindly, hunched over, one hand out to get himself a few steps further away where he could think -

\- and his hand and forehead slammed right into someone's chest. He straightened up with a jerk, and found himself staring cross-eyed at Mustang's nose.

Ed backed up a step. Mustang stared back at him, startled, one eyebrow raising into his bangs.

Ed took another step back - and abruptly, his right leg gave way and he was on his knees. And then - he couldn't help himself - he doubled over and retched. He dry-heaved a couple of times, but his stomach was empty. There was a hand on his back, and he didn't even want to shrug it off. So he just put on the most confident grin he could manage for the moment. It lasted about half a second before he felt really sick again.

"Don't go in there." His voice sounded thin and croaky to his own ears. "I mean, it's got to be destroyed, but I don't know how we do it yet. I think it's _strong_."

Mustang's jaw was set and his eyes were bright. He said slowly, "All right. I think I can feel the edge of it. It feels - very intense, right? Why is it so-"

"You mean, how can it feel worse than that bearded freak? I reckon - Father was cooked. This thing's raw."

"It's already powerful, then? Immediate danger?"

Ed shook his head. "Definitely not yet. It's not done yet."

Ed realised he was shaking, that his eyes were watering. His right knee and the stump of his left thigh ached like fuck. Well. Damage assessment. Brain now working, good, lunch nearly lost right in front of goddamn Mustang, bad. He swiped a hand across his mouth and told himself to get it together, _now_. He stayed as he was for a few moments, until he felt a little more calm and strength seep into him. Then he shrugged Mustang off, clambered to his feet and locked his knees, trying to stay steady and get his balance back.

"Right," he said. "Where to now?"

"We're not leaving this thing alone."

"Yeah, but the researchers - Al and Hawkeye -"

"Right. One of us gets to stay." Mustang was already looking down the corridor, twitchy and intense. It was obvious which of them he thought got to hang out with the jar. He walked over to the window on one side of the corridor and opened it. "There you go, Fullmetal. If you feel ill again you can vomit over one of the most perfect renaissance courtyards in Amestris."

Ed shoved his hands in his pockets and realised, irritably, that he actually wasn't going to argue about staying. If anything down there was crazy strong enough to give Al and Hawkeye any trouble, Mustang would be on it. And if anyone came near the jar, they weren't getting past him.

He nodded. "You got it."

Mustang nodded back, and then he took off down the corridor and left.

Ed blew a breath up into his bangs, and tried to ignore the rolling of his stomach and the taboo alchemy hanging in the air like a bad smell. He stuck his head out of the window, breathed the cool spring air, and tried to see if he could make out any movement in the courtyard or through the other windows. So this square was meant to be famous, was it? It was kind of cool to look at. Everything looked so perfectly in proportion, like they'd worked out the ratios geometrically -

From around the corner, there was an enormous, room-filling explosive crash, a grinding noise - and a surprised yell that was unmistakably Mustang. Ed jerked his head back through the window. Shit, had a wall fallen on him or something? Ed spared one glance for the dark wooden door, then sprinted around the corner.

There was a circular, six foot hole in the marble floor. The stone warped and spiralled up and outward, as if it had burst like a bubble then congealed.

"Mustang?" called Ed. There was no response. There was no sign that he had even been there. Ed looked back around the corner again. He couldn't leave the room with the jar alone. It was crucial. Whatever was happening, Mustang could totally handle himself. Human weapon, right? Ed would be stupid to -

A distant howl of pain echoed from the hole. Now that definitely _was_ Mustang. Ed heard a brief roar of fire, then a strange, choked sound. His stomach clenched itself. He looked back around the corner. He looked at the hole in the marble floor. He drew in a breath.

***

  


  


  


***

They passed through the next couple of rooms quickly and quietly. Then, in a little chamber with maps on the walls, Hawkeye held up her hand. Al could hear muffled voices on the other side of the heavy oak door.

He looked at Hawkeye, and started to slow and deepen his breathing, pre-emptively. Even after all this time, he still wasn't quite used to fighting with a heart hammering in his ribcage and a hundred distracting sensations that would course through his adrenalised body.

Hawkeye raised her hand to count them down from five, and then she swung through the doorway.

The room was tall and lined with books. Five people in white coats were sitting at a long wooden table, surrounded by papers. As the door swung on its hinges, they all froze, staring. Someone said quietly, "Shit." Then they all scattered, like cockroaches after someone hit a light switch.

The next couple of minutes felt a little like one of those silent chase movies. Al cornered a chubby, sweating man in his forties and clapped up wooden bonds to hold him in place. Hawkeye tripped up a woman in a tweed skirt and pinned her down with a knee to the shoulder blade. Al secured her too, then they ran through another couple of rooms and found themselves in the arched arcade around Lady Anne's Courtyard. Two men were racing across it, another through the cloisters. Hawkeye pointed Al forward, and he slapped his hands to the ground. A ten foot hand made of stone stopped the men in their tracks. One immediately scurried around it. The other blinked and dithered. Al had him tied to the stone in a second. Then he launched himself forward and sprinted around the wall he'd made. As he did so, shots sounded on stone. He kind of hoped Hawkeye hadn't hit any of the carvings on the lintels.

A howl to his left made Al turn. In the cloisters, the man Hawkeye was pursuing lay on his back, clutching his bleeding knee. She was covering him with two handguns, a wince of pain on her face. Al clapped and bound him, looking anxiously at his leg.

"Does he need a tourniquet?"

"He'll be fine for now," said Hawkeye. She looked around, nodding her head as she counted.

"What about your shoulder?"

Hawkeye shrugged with her good shoulder. "I'll be fine." She set her teeth as she holstered the gun on her injured side.

Al stuck his thumb out to indicate the doorway he reckoned the other guy had gone through. Hawkeye sprinted off with her gun pointed low, her injured shoulder held a little stiffly.

Al followed her through the doorway to the ground floor of the courtyard's bell tower. A staircase spiralled upwards along the walls. There was no other exit.

One floor up, they paused on a landing. Should they carry on up the stairs, or take one of the doorways that led onto the upper floor of the cloisters? Hawkeye held her hand up again, and they both listened. It was quiet. No, there was a sound. From the righthand door came a noise like the scraping of gravel, growing rapidly louder. Then Al could make out something else, a high-pitched screech. Hawkeye brought up her gun and cocked the hammer. Al stepped back and put his hands together -

And the door shattered.

It splintered with a deafening sound, splinters of wood flying everywhere, and a swarm of those metal spiders flowed over its wreckage. They were screaming. The chorus of their voices was a noise just human enough to be wrong. Al had forgotten that sound, but he knew it now. He'd screamed like that himself, just once. He wasn't thinking of the armour: the armour hadn't been a cage. It had been a life-support system, made with desperation and sacrifice and love. No, he was remembering the stillborn, transmuted body he'd lived in for a few unbearable seconds, blood in his mouth, limbs that cracked and tore, terror and disconnection. He could feel his flesh tearing as though it were happening all over again. Wait a minute -

And Al was lying on the ground floor, the wind knocked out of him. Hawkeye's right shoulder was still rammed into his midsection, and she was twisting his ear painfully and shouting, "Alphonse. Alphonse! Snap out of it."

With an effort, he snapped out of it. And then the spiders were raining onto them from the staircase above.

He clapped. He moved.

A dome of stone rose around them and sealed itself. The spiders struck against its roof like a hailstorm. He could hear Hawkeye breathing hard next to him in the sudden, absolute darkness. He realised he was standing over her now, arms outstretched.

It was a good job he'd got the dome up in time, because that full-body shield move probably worked a whole lot better if you were seven feet tall and made of steel.

Hawkeye said, "Right. Now what?"

Outside, he could hear the spiders scrabbling at the shell around them.

Al said, "Oh. Good point."

***

It had happened, as these things always do, in a fraction of a second. The floor exploded around him, and Roy fell hard and fast. The next thing he knew, a tangle of cloth was trapping his arms and breaking his fall - and then there was a ripping sound and he was falling again.

He landed hard on his ass, still pinned by the cloth, and fell back against the floor. For a dazed moment, he lay still. Then his brain was registering: trapped, in darkness and under attack. _No. Get out._ He kicked and wrestled at the material. It smelled dusty and ancient, and it gave almost immediately around one arm. He fought it out and pulled the material away from his face.

The room was high-ceilinged and quiet, lined with wood panels and hung with greyed tapestries. At a table by the window, Henry Katzenklavier was sitting with a roast chicken in front of him and a half-empty plate, looking as cheerful and pleased with life as he had ten years ago when he'd picked through a wagon of corpses. "I thought I heard a noise upstairs!" He waved his fork upwards. Then he carved off a bit of chicken, dipped it in mustard and popped it in his mouth.

Roy found himself, momentarily, a little lost for words. Or rather, he had plenty to say, but no desire to say it sprawled on his ass with his head poking out of a roll of drapery.

It took him a minute or two to work his arm free. Annoying, but there was no way he was burning the drape while he was in it, the thing was like kindling. Katzenklavier just carried on eating his chicken and occasionally glancing over at him with interest. As Roy hauled himself out, he put down his knife and fork and said, "You do know you just ruined a thirteenth-century tapestry?"

Roy was already striding towards him, fists balled in an attempt to control the urge to take the old man's eyebrows. "Chrysalis. What the _hell_ do you think you're -"

And then Roy was just screaming. Something gripped his wrist from behind and was twisting his arm up behind his back mercilessly until the bones ground, an unyielding, unstoppable clamp. Automail? Roy jerked his head back to look up. A carved wood mask stared down at him, lips closed. He snapped with his other hand. The mask caught fire, and the varnish crackled and boiled. The agonising grip on his arm didn't falter. Roy snapped again. Was this thing even human? The head blazed - but the hand on his arm didn't even react. Roy yanked at his trapped wrist. It got him nowhere, and was appallingly painful. Then, suddenly, there was a grip around his neck, too, and he was being pressed back against the thing's chest. His breath was a thin, choked wheeze that hardly gave him air. His windpipe was being crushed. The heat on his scalp was searing. He threw his free hand up and killed the fire. The effort made his ears ring and the growing pressure in his head throb harder. Patches of static were floating in front of his eyes already. If he died here, Riza was going to absolutely kill him -

The ground exploded.

Roy landed on his stomach this time, just for a change. This was getting tedious. He turned and saw the remains of what had been attacking him. It looked like a tall statue carved out of dark wood. It was impaled from the front, splintered nearly in two by a stone spike rising diagonally from the ground, which must have passed scant inches from Roy's own body. Smoke rose from its charred head. Its arms waved lazily. Roy was reminded of a beetle flipped over on its back. He scrambled to one knee and turned - and found himself eye-to-eye with Edward. He was crouched low on the floor directly below the hole in the ceiling, left hand pressed to the floor and the automail blade extended. He was, of course, grinning like a lunatic. "Can't leave you alone for a second, huh?"

Roy hauled himself up onto his feet, torn between relief and utter annoyance that Ed wasn't where he was supposed to be. "Fullmetal, why the hell did you leave your post?" His voice was scratchy and painful. His windpipe still throbbed.

Ed sprang to his feet and rolled his eyes. "Maybe because I heard you screaming like a little girl?"

"You just disobeyed a direct order -"

"Uh, yeah, to stop that thing _strangling you_. How about 'thanks for helping me be not dead'-"

" _Fullmetal_?" They both turned in the direction of Katzenklavier's voice. He was leaning forward with avid interest. "Really? I thought you'd be taller."

Edward growled but, impressively, did nothing. It was kind of amazing watching him still managing to restrain himself. He looked Katzenklavier up and down, as if he was trying to size him up. "Chrysalis, right?" He jerked his head at the impaled creature and said, " _Wood_? Nice choice, you dick."

Katzenklavier nodded, and tapped the table percussively with two fingers. "Oak. It's not as durable as steel, but the material's everywhere on the grounds here" - and just like that, ribbons of blue light ran from his fingertips. Ed and Roy wheeled round, and the drapes on the walls bulged and moved. "Enough to make hundreds," he said mildly.

The tapestries swung back. A dozen or more tall wooden dolls faced Roy. Their carved, flat faces were medieval and calm. Roy caught a glimpse of sharp, serrated metal at the edge of a hand. He backed up and tilted his head enough to see that they were surrounded. Ed's back brushed his. Roy glanced back to Katzenklavier. He had swung his chair around and was watching them, one hand propped on his chin.

Roy gave him a twisted smile, then raised his hand high to snap - and just in time, remembered the drapes swinging behind the wooden creatures. He flicked his arm down, snapped, and sent out a low whip of fire at the creatures' feet. Then he killed it quickly before the sparks hit the wall. The creatures didn't scream like the little spiders. They barely seemed to notice, carrying on walking briskly forward on blackened, damaged legs. Roy whipped again, and killed the fire, putting out the corner of a tapestry that had ignited. He needed to be careful. If things got out of control - well, you can kill fire, but you can't heal what it's already burnt.

Roy backed up a step further and registered the crashes and grunts coming from Ed's side of the room. He half-turned quickly and caught a flash of Ed, the jacket lost, vaulting off one creature to land his boot on the face of another. The second creature flicked out an arm with shocking speed - and abruptly, Ed was being dangled upside down by his boot. He flailed and jerked his whole body, and tried to hack at the arm holding him with his automail blade, but couldn't reach far enough.

"Fullmetal!" Roy extended his hand. "Don't. Move."

Roy had just enough space in his mind free to savour the hilarious face Ed pulled, eyes wide and the corners of his mouth curving down deeply. Then he snapped a thin line of fire out to sever the creature's arm at the elbow.

Ed landed in a forward roll that derailed itself right at the end due to the wooden forearm still clamped around his ankle. He sat up and clapped himself free. Roy moved to his side, and offered him a hand. Ed took it, and hauled himself up with the automail, none too gently. The golems circled them. One of them slashed its hand out. Ed turned his body so the blow went past, then dropped into a crouch in order to put his hands to the creature and splinter it down the middle. Roy shielded them from the rest with a curtain of fire.

Ed flicked his head around, inches from Roy's - there was a thin, bleeding cut on his cheek now - and smiled ferociously. "Got it. Blood seal's in the trunk! We split 'em down the middle." Then, earnestly, "They're not like Al. Philosopher's Stone golems, like those other things. They can't think, and they're suffering."

Ed seemed to have forgotten that unlike himself, Roy had plenty of experience killing actual human beings.

He killed the fire thoroughly - room still not on fire, good - then set one of the creature's chests alight - a contained blaze, but intense enough to make his skin throb. He only realised afterwards that doing so had meant leaving his own defence to Ed. But Ed deflected a blow and pushed one of the creatures into the other, then clapped up some explosive energy and split both creatures with a punching blow of his automail blade as if he was hammering in a chisel.

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy suddenly caught sight of Katzenklavier's chair. It was empty. "Fullmetal!" he yelled, searching the room. "Chrysalis!"

He couldn't spot the man, but Ed wrenched up a huge stone hand from the floor to bar the only door. They'd deal with Katzenklavier in a minute.

Seven creatures, four, three. He snapped and channelled and focussed, Ed clapped and spun and kicked. Soon the last of the golems fell, a smouldering hole through its chest.

Ed laughed shortly, and swiped the back of his left hand over his forehead, wiping off the sweat. It was rather a good look on him.

But where was Chrysalis? Roy looked around the room, ready to act fast before he pulled any more tricks on them.

The old man was nowhere to be seen. In the stone hand Ed had made, there was a neat new doorway.

***

  


  


  


***

Riza sighed, wondering what kind of gun would work on tiny metal spiders animated by taboo alchemy. Everything had a weak point. Perhaps they'd have little seals, like Alphonse had? Maybe she'd been wrong about fire, then - a flamethrower might do the trick, if an intense enough burst could damage the seal.

Of course, Riza had her own flamethrower. It was just that he was currently otherwise engaged right now. Riza wondered how his choice of _takwin_ expert was working out for him, and if he and Ed had actually hit each other yet.

She sighed again, and leaned her chin on her hand. There must be some way to damage these things -

"Right," said Al, "I think I can get us out of this. Just give me a minute." In the darkness, there was a rustle and a slight reverberation to the floor. He must have been crouching or kneeling.

Riza waited for the transmutation, but Al was silent and still for long seconds. Then she heard him say, quietly, "Ah." There was a sharp clap, and then blue light illuminated him with his hands to the floor. Between them, the points of a pentacle briefly glowed, then seemed to be sucked down into the wood of the floorboards.

From outside the dome, there was the wrenching and splintering of wood, and a raging, many-voiced howl that muffled itself after a moment.

Riza raised an eyebrow. Alphonse always managed to exceed expectations. There were more rustlings as he got up. "They're neutralised?"

"I'm pretty sure," said Al, sounding not that sure. "Let me check." He clapped, and a little hole in the dome's wall let a chink of light in. Al put his eyes to the hole. After a few cautious glances, he clapped again, and the dome receded into the floor.

Riza covered the room and the staircase with her pistol. There were no signs of any spider golems. A bulge marked with rippling traces of transmutation protruded from about six feet up one wall. Riza said, "You sealed them in the stone?"

Al scuffed the floor with his foot. "I left a ring mark. Kind of embarrassing for someone working at State level."

"Your brother leaves all kinds of marks."

Al laughed. Then he pointed upward, questioning. Riza nodded and led the way up, to see what had become of the man who'd set the spiders on them.

The answer to the question was predictable, but not pretty. In a room at the top of the tower, the crate which must have contained the golem-spiders stood open and empty next to a bellpull. In front of the crate were the remains of the man who'd opened it. They were going to have trouble identifying him for sure: from the knees up, his flesh had been shredded by little claws. It hung ragged and half-recognisable off his bones, and his abdomen was a stinking mess of liquids and scraps. They must have just attacked him blindly before he could get out of the way.

Al choked and held his nose, staring fixedly at the man's intact, polished shoes in open horror. Riza looked at him with a little surprise - hadn't he seen far too many things like this for a young man his age? Then it occurred to her that he hadn't been able to smell them.

"It's pretty unpleasant, isn't it?" she said, as she led the way back down the stairs. "You acclimatise after a while. I'm not sure that that's good news."

Al shrugged. "I knew this stuff already. It's just kind of worse now, you know?" He paused on the bottom stair, and his face got serious and wide-eyed. "Major, can you step out of the room for a moment? I think the stone will have got into the blood seals, but I want to make sure none of the golems are still alive in there. I can't feel for sure through the stone, and I need to know they're not suffering, but - if they attacked us again -"

Riza shook her head. "I'm your backup, Alphonse. I don't leave."

Al looked hesitant for a moment, then he hit the floor. The pentacle glowed again and vanished, and as it did so, an identical shape on the wall over the bulge glowed too. Then the wall flowed back like liquid, and the metal spiders rained to the ground and scattered. One landed by Riza's boot on its back. Its thin, sharp legs curled inwards. There were still traces of blood in the joints. She toed it, experimentally. It seemed quite dead.

Al sighed. "They're dead. Their souls pulled away. That's good. But -" His mouth set in a tight, angry line, and he didn't finish what he was saying. Then he clapped, and encased the spiders in a bubble of stone. Another clap, and a muffled screech of metal - and he dissolved the bubble, to reveal nothing left of the spiders but a pile of shrapnel. The containers had been rendered unusable. Riza picked up the single intact spider by her foot, and put it in one of the leg pockets of her combat pants. It would be good to analyse how they were made.

Al met her eyes, and seemed about to speak - but instead, he just shook his head, his eyes wide and round.

Alphonse had always had a generous soul. Perhaps a little too much for his own good. Riza put a hand to his upper arm, and gave him a little smile. "Come on. We're done here. Let's find the Brigadier General and your brother, and see what trouble they've managed to get into."

***

"Damn," said Roy, looking at the little doorway through which Katzenklavier had escaped.

"Asshole must be transmuting without a circle," said Ed. "Wonder what the Gate grabbed from him?"

"Hopefully, something he was fond of." Roy blew a breath up into his bangs, and gestured at the doorway. "After you, Fullmetal."

Ed grinned and launched himself at the doorway. Roy was only a step behind him. The room beyond was a windowless meeting chamber, two stories high. Katzenklavier was just disappearing into the doorway at the other end. Roy was surprised to catch up to him so quickly, but unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. Ed clapped and slapped his hands to the ground with a shout - but then the whole room started shaking violently. Ed lost his balance with a yell. Roy staggered and dropped into a crouch. Something was rushing up past the doorway. It felt like an earthquake. Then Roy watched astonished as earth started pouring in through the doorway. Over the tremors, Ed howled "What the _fuck_?"

Then the tremors subsided, and the ground was still. Roy straightened carefully and looked around. "Did we move?"

Ed put his hands to the ground again. "This is not good."

A stone drill rose from the floor by each wall and attacked it. Dirt poured from the holes on every side.

Roy's mouth was open. "We're _underground_ now?" He let out an exasperated breath. "Unbelievable."

Ed shrugged. "Looks like. Pretty fucking powerful transmutation, right? This dickweed must still have some Philosopher's Stone on the go. He better not be brewing his own."

Roy didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pointed up, to the grey-green cloud which was drifting slowly down from the ceiling.

Roy sniffed the air. " _Shit_. That's chlorine gas." The labs would have had salt buckets in case of fire. One of them must have been close enough for Katzenklavier to transmute. Roy fumbled a handkerchief out of his pocket and passed it to Ed. Then he spat into his sleeve and held it over his nose.

Ed looked at him curiously for a moment, then spat liberally in the handkerchief and held it up to his nose. Muffled through the cloth, he said, "Filtration, right? Chlorine's water-soluble. This work?"

Roy nodded. "Standard emergency measure, every elemental alchemist knows it. You should brush up."

Ed rolled his eyes. "I freaking hate dealing with gases."

Roy pointed upwards and said, "Chlorine's heavier than air. It's descending."

" _Hate_ gas. We'll never be able to tunnel out before it hits, will we? We need to deal with it here." Ed furrowed his brow. "If we could get some water, maybe I could make a solution." He sprinted to the doorway and felt the packed earth. "Shit, it's too dry. It'll take ages to get enough."

Roy caught his eye, and grinned very broadly. He held up a gloved hand. "It's nice and damp in here. Little trick I learnt. I can stop the transmutation at the first stage, agitating the water molecules, then just repeat it until they coalesce."

Ed gave him a huge, wicked grin. "You can make it rain?"

"I can make it rain. Can you handle the rest?"

"Fuck, yes. The solution wants to happen anyway, I just have to make sure it's thorough. And also -" He bit on the handkerchief to hold it in place, then clapped and slapped his hand to the floor. A mushroom-shaped stone shelter rose up around them. "It's gonna rain bleach, right? It'd be pretty funny to see what you look like as a blond."

There was no time to waste. They crouched together. It was a really tight fit. Roy put his free hand to the floor and concentrated. Ed pressed his hands together. "I'm going to do it on three, okay?" said Roy. "One, two, _three_." He watched the transmutation crackle up and out from the array on his glove. Ed's hands slapped to the floor on either side of his. He focused in and in, on the power and the control and the reaction. Again. Again.

It started to rain.

The transmutation took a couple of minutes. They stayed in place, circled by crackling blue light. After the first few seconds, Roy came back to himself a little. They were crouching nearly nose to nose, close enough for Roy to feel Ed's quick breaths hot on his face, to smell his sweat and see the muscles of his jaw working. Ed's eyes were half-closed, but he was grinning in delight. Then he opened his eyes and nodded at Roy once - they were done. They stayed as they were for a moment, both breathing fast. It had been a tense few moments. Then they shuffled apart, carefully looking at the floor, and picked themselves up. Ed dodged the stray droplets falling from the edge of their shelter, put his hands on his hips and looked up, grinning. Roy covered his hair - he really had no desire to be a blond - edged out too, and stood next to him. He looked up at the clear air above.

Ed raised his fist and moved it in an odd gesture, as if he was going to bump Roy's shoulder. Roy frowned at it. Ed shook the fist a bit. Then enlightenment dawned. Roy brought up his right fist and bumped it against Ed's left one. They looked at each other for a moment. Then Ed snorted at him and shook his head. "Man, you're old."

***

Al looked at the crater where the West Council Chamber had been. And then he looked at Hawkeye. Her eyes were big, and she was frowning. "What happened here?"

Al crouched and put his hand to the transmutation marks on the outer edge. "I don't know. Maybe - " The earth was trembling.

Al took a step back and got into a fighting stance. Hawkeye brought up her pistol. Then the earth spat out a stone staircase. Ed's head popped out. He looked around him, warily. Then he spotted them, and raised his hand.

Five more minutes, and they were jogging along the second floor corridor around Lady Anne's Courtyard. Mustang and Ed had explained the basics, talking over each other and interrupting as they ran. The basics were somewhat worrying. How advanced must this thing have seemed that they hadn't felt okay with just opening the flask and dispersing the energy into nothing? And that they hadn't wanted to leave it alone, and getting back to it was more important than chasing after Katzenklavier?

At the door, they stopped. Al found himself automatically moving to stand side by side with Ed. Hawkeye and Mustang stood shoulder to shoulder, looking as usual as though they could read each others' thoughts.

Ed reached out a hand and opened the door. The four of them burst through, covering the place.

The room was entirely empty apart from a dark wooden chair set out in the centre. The chair was unoccupied.

The jar was gone.

"Oh," said Al.

" _Fuck_ ," said Ed.

Hawkeye squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

Mustang said nothing, but he sighed violently and scrubbed a hand through his hair, as though the escape of an unknowable, insanely powerful evil into the world was the most irritating thing that had happened to him all week.

***

Once Miles' team arrived, the whole palace was combed within the hour. They found no more spider-golems, no more researchers. The place was empty, and Henry Katzenklavier was long gone. Hawkeye guessed that he must have had a car stashed nearby. The palace was near a main road. It wouldn't be hard.

Mustang was leaning against the side of one of the vans as Ed and Al trudged across the gravel, ready to leave. He looked at them as they approached.

"We'll find it," said Mustang. "Wherever it is, we'll get it."

Ed said, "The conviction would be totally inspiring if we didn't all know you're an overconfident bastard." And he gave Mustang a friendly little punch on the upper arm.

Behind them, Al blinked.

Mustang said, "Well, you're a stubborn, pig-headed little fucker. Feel free to help." He returned the arm punch, jauntily.

Al blinked again.

"Ow," said Mustang, shaking his hand. He'd gotten the automail arm.

Ed cackled. "Act first, think later. Thanks for proving my point."

"You know, the psychoanalysts would call that projection. Taking your own worst qualities, denying them and shunting them on to someone else so you can preserve your ego."

"Psychoanalysis is bullshit."

"I know, but I was hoping to score a cheap point."

 _Holy shit_ , thought Al. _What, they're_ buddies _now? What's that all about?_ This day was starting to be a little too much to take in.


	9. Interesting Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ed and Al discuss their differences, Mustang plays hardball, and everyone looks to the future.

_In the order of nature we cannot render benefits to those from whom we receive them, or only seldom. But the benefit we receive must be rendered again, line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody._  
         - Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Compensation"

***

  
They walked out of headquarters shoulder to shoulder, but they didn't look at each other.

They crossed the street and turned onto a boulevard, still without talking. They passed the hotel where they used to stay when they came to Central, back in the days when Ed was shorter and Al was taller.

Ed cleared his throat. "You owe me an explanation. Don't try to get out of it."

He put out his right fist to knock Al lightly on the shoulder.

Al leaned backwards, so that Ed's hand flailed stupidly through the empty air in front of Al's chest. He said, "If I explain, are you actually going to listen, or just rant?"

That was aggravating, and a challenge, so Ed hooked his boot around Al's left ankle from behind and pulled his foot out from under him. Al put his hands back to catch himself as he went down, twisted in the air, and flipped himself back up on his feet.

"Depends," said Ed. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

"About signing onto the State Alchemist programme, or about why I didn't tell you?"

"Either. Both." They were still walking, but now Ed's upper body was turned up towards Al, hands in a fighting stance.

"Well -" Al grinned and tensed, ready to move - then he relaxed and sighed. "I think we should have this conversation in the park."

Ed looked around and noticed a few people around them in the street were staring. Ah. "Whatever. You care far too much about what people think."

"I'll see you there," said Al. Then he leapt a railing and started running along the top of a wall.

Ed followed, and was immediately irritated by how the leap took him more effort because his reach was shorter, which was of course why Al had done it. How did Al get to tease him when Al was totally in the wrong here?

"You lied to me!" Ed yelled after him. "For months! How the hell does that even work?"

"How -" Al waved his hands in the air manically as he ran. "That's not how it was! I kept trying to tell you, and every time I'd lead up to it you'd lose your temper. Do you have any idea how difficult you've been to live with since you and Winry broke up?"

"What do you mean - you'd lead up to it? When did that ever happen?"

Al stopped where he was and threw his hands up in apparent exasperation. "I tried to tell you a week ago, when we got noodles right before you left for Yarvil! I started talking about my work, and before I could get there you just lost it and ranted the same crap you always rant about Xerxes and what a bunch of bastards they all were and Dad and what a dick he was for leaving, and you don't see the point of researching Xerxean alchemy, blah blah blah." Al shook his head and jumped off the wall, landing in a forward roll on a small patch of grass opposite the park fence. He pushed himself up at the end of the roll and carried on moving without losing momentum.

But he still looked both ways before crossing the street.

Ed followed him down, swerving past a horse-drawn ice wagon. As he caught up, he yelled, "What the hell's your point? They _were_ a bunch of bastards, and -"

Al turned and squared himself in front of Ed. "It's like - I don't even know! You're always so bad tempered right now. And it's like the breakup brought up all this stuff for you about losing Dad, or you're scared you're going to turn into Dad, or something like that?"

Ed spluttered. " _Turn into_ -?"

But Al was off again. He ran along the street a few steps to get momentum, then ran up one of the railings of the tall fence, stood on top for a moment and jumped. Ed, hoping to one-up him, just started where he was, from a standstill, and used the superior strength of the automail to just vault straight over the top of the fence. He landed in a crouch, pushed himself upright with his hands and was barring Al's way by the time he landed. Al just swerved and carried on running further into the park, presumably to get to a big patch of open space where they could spar properly.

"I didn't _lose_ Hohenheim," yelled Ed. He was jogging alongside Al now, favouring the automail to keep up with Al's long strides. "He walked out on us! Where's all this crap coming from anyway? I don't even -"

Al was in front of him and blocking his way before he'd even noticed. He just stood there for a moment, not even in a proper fighting stance, legs apart and fists balled by his side. His eyes were huge and his eyebrows creased up. He looked miserable and angry. Ed stopped for a moment, taken aback.

Then Al really raised his voice. " _You never call him Dad!_ I get that he wasn't perfect. I know he screwed up - but he was trying to do the right thing! Dad saved me and he saved you too! What were you planning on giving up to get me back? I know you don't like it, I know you hate that he did it without your permission and you hate owing him, but you do, so suck it up. He gave his _life_ up for us, for me, brother, at least - can't you give him some _respect_ -"

" _I didn't ask him to! I didn't want him to! I could have got you out! I was going to get you out! Nobody asked him to do that - the idiot - shitty, stupid fucking loser of a father -_ "

Al kicked him square in the chest.

For a few moments, Ed just sat where he'd landed, ass on the dirt, swiping the back of his arm across his face and trying to get himself under control. It took a while for him to be ready to look up. By the time he was absolutely certain that he wasn't crying, he'd realised that most of his anger towards his brother just wasn't there anymore. Al had fucked up, sure. And - well, Ed himself had fucked up too.

"I'm sorry," said Ed, shaking his head. "I guess I'm a stupid fucking loser too."

Al smiled at him wryly, and for some reason it was one of those smiles that made Ed suddenly and ridiculously grateful that he _could_ smile. He flopped to the ground to sit a couple of yards from Ed. "No, you're not," Al said. "You just get angry when you're hurting about something. Den does the exact same thing when she's got something in her paw."

"I'll give you something in your paw," said Ed. He picked up a little clod of dirt and threw it at Al's torso. As Al blocked it with one arm, Ed threw another clod with his other hand, this one straight over Al's guard. It hit him on the nose.

Al tutted - but instead of retaliating, he just laughed. Then he took a deep breath and said, "I'm really sorry I didn't tell you. I just should have said it. The longer I left it, the harder it got to bring it up, and I was worried you'd just explode and get mad at everyone, and because Winry knew, I didn't want to make things worse with you and her …" He trailed off and shook his head. "I still should have told you."

"So, apart from Winry, who have you told already? Granny? Mustang? Your crazy professor? I'm guessing not Teacher, seeing you don't have thirty-two different fractures -"

"Mustang's sponsoring me. He's been telling me to tell you from the start; he even said he wouldn't sign me in for the written until I talked to you. And Winry's been saying the same. It's not their fault, okay? If you want to be mad with someone, be mad with me."

Ed sighed and picked at the grass with his left hand. "I'm not mad with you, Al. Well, okay, a bit. But -" Everyone fucked up once in a while. They just had to sort this out now. "So," Ed said. "So now you get to tell me what you're actually researching."

"Just the stuff I told you, mostly," said Al. He looked better already. Ed could see his mind turning to the research. "Amestrian alchemy and Xingese alchemy both originate in Xerxes, right? But they branched in totally different directions. They're not _fundamentally_ different. The Xerxeans were able to do things that have never been rediscovered, but what Amestris and Xing were able to take from their knowledge forms the basis of modern science. The more I study the fragments of Xerxean alchemy that are left, the more I can see that they come from a common source. The thing is, decoding _The Perfection of Matter_ turned out to be the exact thing I needed. It's a key. With what I've learned from it, I'm starting to understand the deeper principles of Xerxean alchemy. And it's amazing. It has a much more holistic view of the world than Amestrian alchemy, but much broader in its application than Xingese alchemy."

"You're talking about revolutionising the whole science of alchemy."

"Well, yeah."

"From the ground up."

"Yeah."

"That's big talk."

"Well, yeah! It's even bigger than that. Look, I owe my life to the people in the Stone and to Dad. And I can't pay them back. But if I do this, maybe I could recover some of the best things about Xerxes and build on them. And - if we changed our fundamental attitude to alchemy, the way we do it, then - what happened there, what nearly happened here, we could make sure it never happens again-"

"I think some of those guys would have an issue with the idea that Xerxean alchemists had a great attitude to scientific ethics -"

"Dammit, brother! Every time. You're doing it again."

Ed muttered, "Okay, okay." He took a breath. "So why do you need to be a State Alchemist to do that? It's not like it's the only way to get the money for research. Why not just stay at the university?"

"Because this is huge! This is about rewriting alchemy from the ground up, doing things no one has been able to do for centuries, maybe ever! Can you imagine how badly this could be misused? You could use remote transmutation to level a whole town, kill thousands of people at once, and that's just off the top of my head."

"So. Just keep it secret."

"That's ridiculous. What's the point of knowledge you can't share? If I can't share this because it could be used as a weapon, you might as well say the whole of alchemy shouldn't be passed on to anyone."

"Stop twisting my words! I'm saying - that's why people are careful with alchemical knowledge, why we write in code, why you learn from a master."

"Safeguards, right? Making sure the people who get the knowledge are responsible enough to be trusted with it?"

"Yes -"

"That's why I'm signing up. Well, one reason. If I'm a State Alchemist under Mustang, my research is in the hands of someone I trust."

"But you do know that means fighting? You're in the army -"

"And that's the other reason. You know what's going to happen if Hakuro wins out. It'll be the same wars all over again. The same crimes being committed with alchemy. Look what they're doing! Look what they're trying to make!"

"That's not a fair argument. You planned this before you knew Chrysalis was making that thing."

"Well, he proved me right!"

"You'll have to _fight_ \- you're going to get dragged into a war, did you even think about that -"

"I'm prepared to fight. It sucks, but if it's the only way we can get there, to make this country a place where we use science for helping people, not destroying them - well. You remember the day we first met Mustang? You remember what he said to us about _crossing rivers of mud_?"

"It's just - I thought you were going to university. I thought you were going to have a life now! You do this, if Hakuro wins, you're going to have to go on the lam, or you'll be drafted, or in jail, or worse-"

"So? What do you think he's going to do to you? And what about Mustang? What about Major Hawkeye? What about Captain Havoc and the rest of the team? Even apart from the Chrysalis stuff - after everything everyone's sacrificed, the country could go back to being how it was. That's worth staking my life on." When Ed didn't respond, Al sighed. "This is where I need to be right now."

Ed squeezed his eyes shut. He said, quietly, "I keep thinking about staying on."

Al said, "You were making such a big racket about how great it was you were going to quit, and what an ass you were going to be about it. I wondered if something was up."

"I kept trying to talk myself out of it because it wasn't fair on everybody. To keep you and Winry and Granny worrying, after all that support. And everyone else who's helped us. Staying in the army - I'd be okay with risking my life, but it's just the idea of throwing away everything people have helped us gain."

Al said, "I've thought that. But - you know what, I know other people gave me my life, but it's mine to choose what to do with. It's pointless to try to live without risk anyway, no one can - but if I want to pay all those people back, I should do something good with my life. That doesn't mean living safely while the whole country's in danger, it means using my life for something worthwhile."

"That last thing - I've kind of been thinking that too. _Takwin_ , Chrysalis, the research - I think deep down I knew it was going to be homunculus stuff. And all this politics shit - Mustang, Hakuro and the old guard. Win told me on the phone today she thinks there's gonna be a civil war, she says everyone's talking about it."

Al nodded. "All my university friends are saying the same stuff. Clara said that - hey, wait, you _phoned Winry_?"

Jeez, did Al really think Ed was such an asshole that this was a huge surprise? Ed huffed. "Yeah. I didn't tell her yet that I was signing up again. I mean, I know I'll have to. She totally called this six months ago: she told me I'd never go through with resigning, and now I feel like a total asshole for all the shit I gave her about it."

"How did it go?"

"Good. I mean - don't get the wrong idea, it's not like we're getting back together. But - we're talking now. Which is really good. I missed her."

Al smiled. "So. What are you going to do now? Still going to quit at the end of the month?"

Ed laughed shortly, then looked Al right in the eye. "Course I'm not. I'm staying. I decided back in the palace. That thing in the jar. All this shit with Hakuro and Chrysalis. And what you said too, about what happens if Hakuro wins? I'm staying."

"And by the way, this whole _rebuilding the whole science of alchemy_ thing? I want in on it."

"I thought you would."

"I still think Xerxean ethics sucked balls."

"I know."

"But if there's good stuff in their science, stuff that can be used for peoples' benefit, we should get to that. And you're right. I hate owing stuff I can't pay back. Maybe you've got a point. Everything that was done for us - we should pay this shit on to someone else. Do some good with it."

"Yeah. Like a chain." Al was looking into the middle distance now, towards the new, doubtless alchemically sculpted statue of Olivia Armstrong leaning on her sword that dominated this part of the park. Ed wasn't quite sure if Al was thinking of her sacrifice, or if he was just distracted by her marble boobs.

"So, we stay with the team, we do this research. And then when we've kicked Chrysalis' ass, and Mustang's running things, we can just take it as far as we can, see what we can do with it. Sounds like a plan to me."

"Yeah." Al leaned over in Ed's direction, and put his right fist out. Ed leaned forward and stretched out to meet it with his own right fist. They looked at each other. And then they both grinned.

***

  


***

"We've got roadblocks set up at all the tollbooths out of Central," said Miles. "We've circulated descriptions of Katzenklavier, we've contacted his children, we've had his house searched again. And nothing, Sir."

It had only been two hours. Roy raised an eyebrow. Despite his rage and frustration that the bastard had gotten away, he was impressed.

"My guess," continued Miles, "is that he planned for this very well. Once you get off the main road, there are river routes, villages, dirt roads. He could have safe houses anywhere. We know from the alchemical marks in Duke Humphrey's Walk that he tunnelled out from there, and from the tyre tracks in the clearing above that he had a car stashed there. But it was three minutes from the West Road. Once he was on it -" Miles shrugged. "We can block all the toll booths we like, there are enough places he could have turned off before."

Roy said, "If we put the entire army onto it, we could comb the country. But we don't have the entire army."

"Would that kind of alchemy need specialised equipment?" asked Riza.

Roy nodded.

"Then we might be able to track him through his suppliers. We work out the rarer resources he'll need, then Captain Havoc can make some calls to the right people."

"And he wasn't working alone," said Roy, tapping a pencil against his lips. "The other alchemists he used were all State-certified. We can keep tabs on what every State Alchemist is up to. Maybe even uncertified alchemists at State level. We can talk to the universities." He wondered how well Professor Mackintosh would take being asked to spy on her own colleagues.

After he dismissed Miles, he sagged back in his chair for a moment. Riza stayed standing for a moment, then sat herself and heaved a very small sigh. "Avenues and options," said Roy. "That's comforting, isn't it?" He practically spat the last words. As if it hadn't been enough that they hadn't been able to bring Chrysalis to book after the Promised Day, now there was this. The fact that Katzenklavier evidently had some Philosopher's Stone on his hands was worrying, that his tortured golems actually functioned now was horrifying, and as for that embryonic thing in the jar - it was beyond words. Then there was the whole business of who had hired Chrysalis and commissioned his idiotic, insanely dangerous research - and who had also probably hired the gang who'd served as the project's guard dogs, who'd murdered Katie Flowers and Patrick Dunleavy, who'd tried to take out members of his own team.

Riza said quietly, "I set up that meeting. It was rather easy, actually. I was surprised." As ever, their thoughts ran on the same track.

Roy sat up a bit and pushed a hand through his hair. "When?"

"Tomorrow at twelve."

Roy laughed. "High noon. How appropriate. Ready?"

A look passed between them. They were very much ready.

***

When Roy arrived in the office the next morning, he found Fullmetal and Alphonse already on the sofa. As he hung up his coat, Fullmetal grinned at him and waved his pocket watch. Alphonse smiled politely, and covertly nudged Edward. They seemed more at ease with each other than they had been the previous afternoon. So, it seemed that they'd settled their differences and made their decision, one way or the other.

Roy asked, "Shall we go through to the meeting room?" He thought briefly about requesting some coffee, but then decided, _no, let's just get this done right away_.

Roy sat at the meeting room's table, laced his hands, and waited. Ed and Al took seats on the other side. Edward was still silent, still grinning as if he'd scored a decisive point. Alphonse looked nervous.

Roy said, "You can speak freely in here. I had this room thoroughly checked out for security after it turned out certain members of my team were abusing the 'away from headquarters' rule to hold confidential meetings at the pub."

Ed snorted, but then his smile faltered a little. He seemed to be having trouble getting started. Then he set his face, pulled out his pocket watch, and put it on the table. He looked Roy in the eye and said firmly, as if he was handing down an order, "Give me a new contract." His eyes looked the same as when he'd turned up on the steps outside East City HQ, twelve years old and still shaky on his new leg, demanding to take the test.

So there it was, then. The schemer in Roy was euphoric; the man in him was saddened. He was going to remember this moment. Ed and Al had been merely children when Roy had begun this plan, which was supposed to let their generation live peacefully. Now they were grown up, their quest complete, free with their whole lives ahead of them - just in time to get sucked into the whole mess of this country once again. It wasn't just them, either. Recruitment was up: young men and women of their age around the country were joining the army, volunteering despite the uncertainty and the divisions. They wanted to rebuild. They wanted to help their country, to fix things. And their lives were theirs to give away. How many of them were going to die or suffer before Roy got to the top?

Roy fixed a serious, hard expression on his face, eyeballed Ed, and said, "Why?"

Ed frowned. "You _know_ why. I want to carry on investigating this Homunculus business. My time's up, so I need a new contract." He looked away for a moment and sighed through his nose. Then he muttered, "Well, of course you're gonna make me say it."

Roy just carried on looking and waiting.

"How am I supposed to just retire when the whole country's still in danger? That thing in the jar. This fight - there's probably going to be a war, right? And if that happens, you need to win it so we get to see what this country looks like with you in charge. I still owe you money, remember?"

Roy remembered. And he remembered how he'd felt at Ed's age, standing in front of his foster mother and afterwards his old teacher, passionate and silly as he explained what it was that drove him to want to protect. There was nothing silly about Ed right now. He had a hundred times the bitter experience of Roy at nineteen - and sad as it was to admit it, a hundred times the common sense. There was something almost shocking about hearing him accept the possibility of war. The old Edward would have railed that there was no way they could let a war happen, as though all things were possible through sheer force of will.

Roy sat back, as if he was considering the offer. "Well. You'd lose your independence. You'd be under my orders - and I mean for real this time. You're an adult now, and you'll be treated like one. Don't expect me to cut you any slack. It'll be hard work. Boring. Dangerous. You can say goodbye to your social life. And" - he leaned forward and looked right into Edward's eyes now, because this was the real question - "you'd be risking everything for me, everything. Do you really want all those years you two spent searching, all those sacrifices that other people have made for you, to be wasted?"

Edward looked at him, steadily. His chin was up, the line of his jaw standing out and his neck muscles tensed. He said, "I know all that stuff. I've thought all this through. We've decided. It's my life, I can use it how I want." The legs of his chair squeaked back across the polished wood floor, and Edward stood up, still holding Roy's gaze. Then he snapped a perfect, neat salute.

It was a moment before Roy could summon up an appropriate expression. Edward didn't grin or stick his tongue out or shout "gotcha!", or even comment on the fact that he'd rendered Roy speechless. Roy took him in for a moment. Then he stood and returned the salute. "I'll have the paperwork drawn up this afternoon. At ease, Major."

Fullmetal relaxed, flopped back into his chair, puffed out a breath, suddenly back to his familiar, casual insolence once more. The world continued to turn.

Roy looked over to Al, who'd been sitting patiently through the whole exchange, his hands clasped loosely on the table. Alphonse picked up his cue, and nodded seriously, a little stubbornness twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Sir," he said. "I'm ready now."

"Would an appointment for the written examination on the 21st give you enough time to prepare?"

Al nodded cheerfully. "I've already prepared."

Edward narrowed his eyes and said, "Fast work, Brigadier General."

Roy acknowledged the point with a little smirk. "I made the arrangements last week."

Ed rolled his eyes and turned to his brother. "You see? You see what you've let yourself in for here?"

Alphonse said mildly, "I was kind of expecting him to fix it up in advance, brother. We both know how the brigadier general's usually kind of underhanded and sneaky about this stuff."

Roy sighed theatrically. "I see I've been saddled with another couple of insubordinate smart-asses. Ah well. You're going to fit right in with the rest of that lot." He stood. "Dismissed, Major. Alphonse. Come back to the office at fifteen hundred. I'll have the papers prepared, and you can both sign your lives away."

As Edward and Alphonse left the main office, Edward with a backwards wave and Alphonse with a nod and a smile, Roy dropped into the chair behind his desk. He called out across the room. "Falman? You're going to need to find another couple of desk spaces somewhere in this cattle pen."

Another two lives in his hands, and another two powerful pieces out on the board. Roy looked at his watch. Not long until noon, until his next move. For their sake and for everyone else's, he hoped he could make it a good one.

***

***

The Fuhrer's empty office was always kept locked these days. Since its previous occupant had left it for the last time, nothing had changed about it except for the slow increase of dust. Bradley's sabres still hung in a neat column on the wall, his books lined the bookcase. On the large, plain desk, a couple of sheets of notepaper still lay unused by the inkwell, spattered with old blood. On the rug, the smears of other faded bloodstains here and there showed bare footprints: the immortal army must have made it here. Roy had brushed the seat of his chair down thoroughly before he sat. The last thing he needed in this meeting was dust bunnies stuck to his ass. Hakuro had just plonked himself down on a chair on the other side of the table, letting a little cloud of dust rise. He'd then given Roy a withering look obviously meant to imply that he considered Roy too much of a fop to be worthy of power.

A few days after the Promised Day, Roy had confronted Hakuro and struck this bargain they had, for the sake of Amestris. Grumman, Fuhrer for only a few hours, had left quite the power vacuum behind him. Roy suspected he would have been amused by the distinction of being Amestris' shortest serving Fuhrer. He'd died in office sixteen hours after taking power, before he'd even set foot in Central Headquarters. Grumman had had the support of many of the old guard and most of the reformers. In the chaos after his death, the military was sharply divided between reformers and old guard. The country had been facing a civil war. Both Roy and Hakuro believed they could gain enough popular and military support to make a solid move for the top. Until then, they had agreed to a gentlemanly conflict. In the meantime, Amestris would be governed by committee. The real reasons behind Grumman's death, unfortunately, changed nothing about this.

Roy was reminded of the last time he'd sat at this table, three years ago. Once again, there were monsters lurking in the shadows, and once again, the lives of his people were threatened for shining a light in dark corners. And just like last time, no one was touching the tea.

Riza stood behind them, her back against the door. Next to her stood an officer of Hakuro's whom Roy recognised. He hadn't brought along his aide or his second-in-command. He'd brought a sharpshooter.

Roy folded his arms, let the pressure of his rage build behind his eyes, and gave Hakuro a damn good stare. The man didn't flinch, but Roy flattered himself that some of the sheen of sweat on his brow was due to nerves rather than the unaccustomed exercise of the long schlep down the corridor. "So," said Roy, without breaking the stare. "Time we put our cards on the table. Were you behind this thing?"

Hakuro didn't even bother to ask _what thing_. "Katzenklavier was retired. He had nothing to do with the military."

"He had an entire gang in his pay. Who was funding that?"

"I imagine he was. He was wealthy - and I don't appreciate this. We can speak honestly, but I'm not going to be threatened by-"

"You want a threat? All right. You _were_ involved with this, and I know it in my gut." Roy's words were controlled, but his head throbbed with the impulse to punch or to snap. He was glad Riza was in the room with him, trusting him to stay in control. "You are not being honest with me, and I am not fooled. I will pin this on you - and if I win - and I will win - then you'll be brought to book for it. I'm tempted to let the people of Amestris dish out whatever punishment they like."

Hakuro didn't reply for a moment. His mouth was a compressed line. Roy wondered what he was looking at: the revolutionary, the cocky young officer, or the human weapon?

After a few moments, he leaned forward and eyeballed Roy aggressively. The gesture seemed puffed-up, threatened. "Is that all you've got?"

"Yes," said Roy. "Katzenklavier hired the gang who murdered Katie Flowers and Patrick Dunleavy, we have proof of that. Flowers heard Katzenklavier discussing his research with one of his bosses in the brass."

"So, all you've got to pin this on me is hearsay from a dead woman? Which doesn't even mention me?"

"I've got enough evidence to take this public. You're breaking the terms of our agreement, Hakuro. Now stop wasting my time and give me some honest answers."

"Fine," Hakuro spat, "let's be honest. You are not going to win. You will never get enough of the brass behind you, because your plans would destroy the military and get its leaders lynched by extremists. Everyone in the brass knows it." Hakuro was starting to raise his voice in a booming rhythm. He was sweating, and spraying stray flecks of spit as he talked. He looked a little like an angry bull. "You might be enough of a silly schoolboy to put your own head in a noose, but don't expect anyone else to join you."

"You've got your head in the sand. This country isn't going to survive without change, fundamental change, it'll tear itself apart. Only a tyrant could hold it together without reforms - and everyone in the brass with any sense knows it. You're not Bradley, Hakuro. He was a monster. You're a spineless yes-man with delusions of grandeur."

"Here's some more honesty for you." Hakuro jabbed a finger, rage in his eyes. "If you lose - and you will lose - I'm going to see you dead. You're a traitor, Mustang. You tried to overthrow the government, you betrayed your own country, and we may have covered it up for the sake of the people, but don't fool yourself that anyone's forgotten. When I win - and I will win - I'm going to personally make sure you swing for it, Riza Hawkeye swings for it, and every one of your cronies too."

Well. Roy had assumed as much. It was a painfully obvious attempt to push his buttons, confronting him with what he already knew about the stakes of the game. From the corner of his eye, Roy saw Riza stiffen slightly.

Hakuro ranted on. "Those deserters who held up Central Radio like bandits, the war buddies you charmed into turning assassin, that fixer you've got buttering up every industrialist in the country - yes, that's right, I know his real job - those thugs you've adopted from Briggs, your pet prodigies and their taboo hobbies. You hypocrite, you're threatening me with the people's wrath for taboo alchemy while for years you've been harbouring two devious little shits who've committed capital crimes with it. You and that idiot pal of yours thought you had it covered up, didn't you? You're soft, Mustang. You're overconfident and you're soft, and you don't have as many secrets as you think. Win or lose, you're a dead man, Mustang. And you're going to lose. And then you're going to watch the lot of them die before you do. But isn't that what they signed up for?"

Roy drew a breath. What really worried him was Hakuro's aggression. Was he really ready to go to war? Or could Roy manipulate him towards continuing to play the longer game? If he'd risked so much in hiring Katzenklavier and protecting his research, he must think it was crucial to his chances of victory. This meant two things: that he thought that otherwise, Roy was likely to win out over him in gaining the brass's support; and that he would think his chances were better when the research came to fruition, when the creature was truly made. Hakuro needed time for this; Roy needed time to stop him. So how could Roy get Hakuro to do what he wanted?

By telling the truth.

Roy folded his arms tightly. "If this is how things are, don't expect me to hold back."

"Don't expect me to be intimidated by you. You've let the human weapon thing go to your head." Hakuro grinned. "Just remember I've got a few weapons of my own."

"When do you want to start this war, Hakuro? Today? Tomorrow morning at nine, give you time to get your escape route prepared?"

Hakuro shrugged. "Your move, Mustang. I think we know who's holding more cards."

"My move? All right. We will not go to war tomorrow, and we will not go to war the next day. You're trying to build a Homunculus. I'd warn you if it wasn't utterly pointless. You know now what Bradley was, you know what the last Homunculus did to the people it was created to serve and what it tried to do to this country."

Hakuro looked at him for a long moment, and then snorted and tossed his head a little, more like a bull than ever. He was conceding.

There was going to be blood - but not today.

As Riza and he walked back to his own office, he took a moment to offer her a wry smirk, and she took a moment to smile back and blow out a breath that ruffled her long bangs. None of it was a surprise, really, to either of them. He'd gotten the result they needed from the meeting, and now they could apply themselves to tracking down Katzenklavier as soon as possible. But still -

Still, when Roy opened the door to the office a few minutes later, it felt like a punch to the chest. Falman was stacking up his in-tray with a towering pile of papers, coded with little bits of coloured paper. Havoc was wielding the field telephone and talking to Catalina with his eyebrows as he did it. Charlie and Dino were trying to smoke out the window because they thought no-one was watching. Miles was working quietly in a corner, ignoring the bustle and chaos.

Ross was circling the desks with a large bag. She looked up and said to Roy, "Collection for Brosch, Sir. His surgery went well, but the bone's definitely fractured." Warrant Officer Denny Brosch had been shot in the thigh during the Luttenberger raid: one of those nasty, messy leg wounds, poor bastard. "Looks like he'll probably be in hospital for a while."

"And you know how dull that's gonna get," said Havoc, off the phone now. He picked up a packet of beef jerky and some magazines in a brown paper bag, and waved them at Ross. As she took them, she looked questioningly at the paper bag. He gave her a disarming smile that Roy suspected might be calculated, and said again, apologetically, "hospitals are _really_ boring."

Roy and Riza fished in their pockets for change. Riza said, "Lieutenant, could you get him some fruit for me, and give him my regards? I'll try to pop by tomorrow."

As Riza turned to go through to her own office, Roy said to her, "Come over this evening. We need to do some planning."

***

Riza's career as an optimist had been brief, and it had ended badly. These days, she preferred to think of herself as a woman of faith.

By late that evening, they were both sitting cross-legged on the library floor, surrounded by papers, plans and notes. For now, though, being surrounded by papers was making them both feel a little calmer. They were both list-makers by nature; it was a comforting thing to have plans, back-up plans, failsafes.

"We're going to win," said Roy for the eighth time that evening. He was working on one of those arrow-strewn, scribbled flow-charts he liked so much.

Riza nodded. "We're going to win." She put the conviction into her voice and it struck straight from there down to her heart. She trusted Roy, trusted his will and his brilliance and his stubbornness, all the things she'd known of him down the years. She trusted herself, to know what her talents were and give of her best. She trusted her comrades, tough and sharp, clever and kind, a perfect unit. And she loved all of them. The thought of the stakes, the sacrifices that might be needed tore at her. And god - the Elrics, too, now.

Edward was one thing. She'd resigned herself to worrying over him years back. His nature was far too much like Roy's for his own good. She'd always quietly suspected he'd be staying with the team, but Alphonse - that was something different. He'd always had a strange significance to the team, to her, to Roy. His restoration had always been an impossible thing, and yet they had always all believed in it, absolutely. If anyone had ever had the doubts of a sensible adult, they'd hidden them well. She still remembered the high that had possessed the team for days after Edward and Alphonse had visited the office during the months of his recovery. How everyone had glowed, how even Rebecca, who'd never met him before in her life, was pumping his hand and beaming at him. And now here he was, grown handsome and tall and full of life, offering up the whole of himself to them and their goals. She should have expected nothing else from him, she supposed, but it still hurt like hell to see him do it.

It was just after midnight when they both finally set down their pens. Riza tidied the chaos of papers into a pile while Roy made a final cup of tea for her and a coffee for him. As she excavated the desktop, a scribbled sentence jumped out at her from an open notebook: _Lucy, nine o' clock or just after, meet at front bar of the George Hotel_. Doubtless, Roy must have thought his alchemy code very urbane and sophisticated when he had come up with it at sixteen.

Roy came in with the tea as Riza was shutting the notebook, marking the place with a ribbon.

"Theory notes?" she said. "I didn't know you were researching right now."

"Oh?" Roy handed over her mug of tea, and looked a little perturbed. "This is just - the fight got me thinking. Overlapping transmutations, refining their accuracy, things like that. I just wanted to write down my ideas while they were fresh in my mind. No idea when I'll get a chance to work on them, but - well, there are probably some battles ahead. If I get a chance to sharpen my skills or make them safer to use, I should. You don't mind?"

It was good of him to ask, but really, he should know by now that it was the wrong question. No need for all that defensive babble. His alchemy belonged to him. She'd given away her legacy for good, a long time ago. Their agreement was only that he'd have a piece of her mind if she disapproved. "If I minded, I'd let you know about it. I'm glad. It's good to keep thinking, isn't it?"

Roy inclined his head and took a sip of black coffee. "Can I give you a lift home?"

Riza paused, then just admitted it. "No, it's only three blocks." Roy wiggled his eyebrows irritatingly. "I'm going to Miles' place. As well you know." He grinned. Of course the whole question had been a set-up. "You're incorrigible." Another eyebrow wiggle. "That's not a compliment."

***

After Riza left, Roy divided the documents into two piles. The essential stuff went into the safe, to pass onto Madeline so she could add it to the rest of Roy's compromising document stash. Roy took the rest into the living room, piled it into the fireplace and incinerated it with a snap. He dropped into an armchair and watched the paper curl and turn to ash: his slanted scribbles next to Riza's neat cursive. He thought of the old days, receding further and further into the past, when it had been Hughes' handwriting next to his on the incriminating notes. He'd always joked that Hughes' writing was so illegible it wouldn't be so bad if one of those things fell into enemy hands. And Hughes had teased Roy in turn about his obsessive lists, and how drawing flowcharts made him feel more in control of the universe, and ...

Roy opened his eyes. The ashes of the papers smouldered in the fireplace. He turned his head over to look at the rooftops outside his window, and the clouds rolling across the sky. All those people out there in the city: eating late dinners, sleeping, nursing babies, studying, having sex, arguing over whose turn it was to take the garbage out. Riza was walking briskly through the streets to the house of a man he trusted. Havoc and Catalina were probably draped all over each other in their flat being ridiculous, or doing something creative that no doubt everyone would have to hear about in the office tomorrow. Falman was on the evening shift at headquarters, probably going over some document for the third time to unnecessarily triple-check he had it right. Fuery had said he was going to a show, one of those annoying modern bands with all the screeching electrical guitar. Breda was on a promise to Maria Ross to be each others' wingmen: if that was tonight, they'd be scoping out girls in one of the military pubs near headquarters. Perhaps Fullmetal and Alphonse would be in one of those cheap little cafes in the university quarter, drinking beer or coffee and mocking each other, or maybe scarfing down cheese noodles. Gracia would have put Elysia to bed hours ago by now, she would be sitting up with a last cup of tea and the radio. Roy really should pay them a visit. It had been far too long.

He looked over to the little bookcase by the couch, then back. "I'll get there," he said to the empty living room. "I promise you, I'm going to get there."

  


***

A week later, Al looked up from his revision as he heard Ed's keys jangle in the door.

Ed came into the living room, unbuttoned his jacket and threw it on the floor, and then flopped backwards onto the couch with his boots over the arm. He heaved a martyred sigh.

"Any news on Chrysalis?"

"Nope. Still waiting on Briggs to get back to us about that lead in North City. I still think it was bull, we should just hit the supply angle harder."

"So, just a paperwork day?"

"Shit, yeah. You know, Falman looks harmless, but actually he's secretly a demon slavedriver. He made me retype this entire fucking log instead of filling in all the typos by hand. And he wouldn't let me transmute the typos because he's got this ridiculous fixed idea that ozone makes paper decay."

"Swap you this for the paperwork." Al held up his copy of the annoying but unfortunately essential crammer he was currently revising from.

Ed laughed and tutted. "You're revising way too hard. You can take the written in your sleep."

"Hey, I'm a political football, remember? If Hakuro's guys are going to try and find a way to disqualify me, my performance better be perfect. Anyway, I'm going out in a bit. I'm meeting Emily and Michael from university, we were going to check out the Little Cat Cabaret. You should come."

Ed looked sheepish. "Maybe I'll join you guys later. I gotta - after I wash up and get changed, I'm actually heading over to Mustang's place for an hour or two."

This thing - where Ed and Mustang actually voluntarily spent time in the same room, had proper conversations, joked even - was a source of endless entertainment to Al. "So," he said, putting a little too much glee into his voice, "Hanging out? Chewing the fat? Sage advice on charming the girls and boys of Central out of their underthings?"

"Shut _up_ ," growled Ed. "No. To all of it. It's professional! It's just - I still think our theory is overcomplicating the blood decomposition process. Xerxean alchemy's usually more elegant than that. Thought I'd get his opinion on some of our workings."

Wait, Ed was taking advice from Mustang now? Wow, that was just a new level. Al waited for the excuse, the defence. _He's still a useless one trick pony, it's not like I need his help, he fussed so much I said I would to shut him up_.

The flailing didn't come. Instead, Ed rubbed his neck with the back of one hand and stared into space. He said, "We're not hanging out hanging out, it's just - sometimes he's kind of useful to bounce these things off. He picks up stuff." He pulled a face, and a nervous minor key crept into his voice. "Is that weird?"

Al said, slowly, "No-o. I don't think it's weird."

Ed ran a hand through his hair and sighed irritably. He sat up and swung his feet onto the floor.

Al said, "It's okay to change your mind about someone, brother. I like the brigadier general, anyway. I always did." He didn't add, _he's a lot like you_.

Ed said, "He's still a dick." He sounded reassured, like Mustang being a dick was some sort of navigational aid: as if, as long as he had that, he knew where he was.

"Brother," said Al. "I don't quite know how to break this to you, but sometimes, you can be kind of a dick too."

Ed launched himself off the sofa, got him in a headlock, and was noogying him before he could reach around to clap.

***

  
 _The End_

 _\- but the story continues in The Phoney War._


End file.
